


All Hail the Underdogs

by xiaq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, But they figure things out, Dex is a problematic asshole for the first few chapters, Dex is an angst prince and Nursey just wants him to wear some goddamn sunscreen, Dex's childhood was not the best, Dorms, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, I had to mess with their ages a little for the plot to work, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, NHL Draft, Nursey is a little oblivious, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, THE ANSWER MAY SHOCK YOU, There is a baby, also, discussions of race and privilege, how much can these losers platonically touch each other before realizing it's not platonic, idiots to lovers, ish, just go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 74,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15446814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiaq/pseuds/xiaq
Summary: Lucifer was an angel once.That’s what Nursey thinks, the first time he sees William Poindexter.Because the boy is beautiful even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he’s doubtless the kind of person who would punch you in the face if you said the words “you” and “beautiful” to him in the same sentence.His skin is choked with freckles. It’s potentially more freckle than skin. Not just his face, where his nose and cheekbones are so hyper-pigmented they look tanned, but his collarbones and forearms and knuckles. The close-shaved dark ginger stubble of his hair should make his ears look too big or his mouth too wide but instead it accentuates the long curve of his throat, the cup of velvet skin between the tendons in the back of his neck.“You’re the new defenseman?” Nursey asks. “William Poindexter?”And the boy turns around and considers him with what might be contempt but what might just be the way his face looks and says, “Yeah?” like its a challenge.And Nursey thinks:Oh no.





	1. Chapter 1

__

 

_Lucifer was an angel once._

That’s what Nursey thinks, the first time he sees William Poindexter.

Because the boy is beautiful even though he shouldn’t be. Even though he’s doubtless the kind of person who would punch you in the face if you said the words “you” and “beautiful” to him in the same sentence.

His skin is choked with freckles. It’s potentially more freckle than skin, really. Not just his face, where his nose and cheekbones are so hyper-pigmented they look tanned, but his collarbones and forearms and the knuckles of his calloused hands. The close-shaved dark ginger stubble of his hair should make his ears look too big or his mouth too wide but instead it accentuates the long curve of his throat, the cup of velvet skin between the tendons in the back of his neck. It makes his cheekbones sharper, his eyes—so light brown they look almost gold—more stark under pale spiky lashes.

He’s wearing boots and jeans and a leather jacket that could either be beat to shit for aesthetic reasons or just beat to shit, and a permanent scowl that will likely give him wrinkles at an early age but right now is just terribly flattering.

It all adds up: the interesting face, the long, wiry frame and taut, fight-ready stance, to create a body that casting directors for edgy photoshoots would salivate over. The sort of photoshoots that, if they involve teeth, it’s not because people are smiling.

The point is, he has a carefully curated look and that look is _fuck off_.

Nursey wants to touch him.

Nursey has never touched someone with that many freckles before and he doubts this particular someone would let him close enough to try which is, he thinks a little despairingly of himself, perhaps why he finds the boy so damn compelling.

The grass is always greener.

You always want what you can’t have.

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

Regardless.That’s Nursey’s first impression: An angry, pigment-spangled, potentially once-divine being. An angel trying very, very, hard not to be.

Nursey reminds himself, standing in line at the administration office, trying not to stare at the nape of the other boy’s neck—the freckled knob of his spine, pushed hard against the skin just above his collar, that Nursey is at Samwell to focus on hockey, not admire transfer students who are undoubtedly straight and probably won’t share a single class with him and who he’ll likely only see from a distance for the next year and then never see again and that’s a good thing because he’s here to _focus on hockey_.

Except then, the new kid steps up to the receptionist’s desk and says in a rough, surprising drawl. “I’m a transfer. Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

And Nursey knows that name.

Because it was in the email that Coach sent out over the summer. It was the name that was written in sharpie on the scratched DVD on Coach’s desk that he’d pushed toward Nursey the day before. Coach had tapped the DVD with a blunt finger and said, “I’ve found you a new D-partner, Nurse.” And Nursey had taken the DVD back to his yet-unpacked room and played it on his laptop, stretched out on the bare mattress of his shitty lofted bed. The footage was grainy, badly spliced together and clearly shot unprofessionally from the stands, but it was enough. Poindexter was good. Big, but fast. Aggressive, but smart. Together, Nursey thought, they might be great.

So when Nursey hears the name, he doesn’t even think. He just speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?” he asks. “William Poindexter?”

And the boy turns around and considers him with what might be contempt but what might just be the way his face looks and says, “Yeah?” like its a challenge.

And Nursey thinks:

_Oh no._

***

William Poindexter has his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose and on his face they’re still a family.

He considers his reflection in the filmy bus-station bathroom mirror, rubs his thumb down the raised line of scar tissue bisecting his chin—pink and new and only partially hidden in the drip-paint collage of his freckles, and then rubs harder, more habit than intention.

After spending the summer as a stern man on his uncle’s lobster boat—sorting, banding, baiting, re-setting, trying his best to repair the limping hydraulic trap hauler that probably should have been scrapped a decade ago—layers of sunburn have turned into a tan, multiplying the pigment across his nose and cheeks and shoulders to a point where he looks constantly dirty. Like he’d been working in his other uncle’s garage and absently smeared an oiled forearm over his face.

His cousin, Saoirse, the one who’d left for New York at eighteen, got a job in marketing and now only returned home for shorter and shorter visits at Christmas time, had once said that Dex looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He thinks she was trying to be mean. Or elitist. Or both. But he’d sort of agreed with her. He didn’t know who Jackson Pollock was, at first, but when he’d gone with his aunt into town the following weekend he’d used the library computer to google him.

At thirteen, with new calluses on his palms from his first ever boat haul, constant peeling skin over his nose and shoulders, and the kind of secret that scrapes your insides hollow, he’d found the paintings, grainy and pixelated as they were on the old computer monitor, strangely familiar.

Maybe he _was_ like a Jackson Pollock painting: a dark, incensed, anxious, spatter of reds and yellows and blacks and blues. Too much color for one canvas. Too much feeling for containment. _Too much_ , maybe, in general.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door and he stops glaring at his reflection because there’s nothing much he can do about it.

He uses a paper towel to dry his hands, runs his fingers, still damp, over his buzzed hair, and shoulders his duffle bag.

Samwell is waiting.

He’d googled Samwell at the same time that he’d googled all the rest of the best hockey prep schools in the country.

Same library.

Same shitty library computer.

Initially he’d wanted to try and play for a junior team, he was good enough, he’d been scouted, but now, money issues aside, billeting would be all but impossible considering his legal situation. So he’d spent stolen hours at school and after work searching boarding schools with prep hockey teams, comparing stats and rosters and course offerings, before he sent in his game tapes and paperwork with scraped together application fees and letters of recommendation from his former and current coaches.

He’d applied to six schools and was accepted at two.

Samwell was the closest, not that he really cared about staying close, but his lawyer said it would make things easier for possible future hearings if he was within a few hours drive of home. If he could even call it that anymore.

Samwell was also the cheapest, which he did care about, and it routinely produced D1 and NHL prospects which was his primary concern. A full scholarship with housing, a meal plan, and a chance to elevate his game to the point that maybe, next year, he could get a scholarship to college? Or even get drafted?

An easy decision.

After getting a handful of salt-crusted 100’s from his uncle at the harbor early that morning—payment for his summer of work—he’d hitched a ride with another stern man from Port Marta to Brunswick and then took a Greyhound from there to Boston, and then another bus from Boston to Samwell.

And now he’s here, standing outside the station with a paper map from his library’s equally shitty printer, a duffle bag from the army surplus store full of abused hockey gear, and an address written in permanent marker on his wrist.

He does have a newly-purchased cellphone, an unfamiliar weight in his back pocket, but he doesn't want to call an Uber because according to the map, Samwell’s campus is only a mile away and he’s not ready to start spending his money yet. Definitely not when there are more important things he’ll need soon. Like new skates. Books. Clothes.

He shoulders his bag and starts walking.

When he gets there, the campus looks exactly like the online pictures: Sun-dappled and idyllic with people lounging under trees and throwing footballs and weaving colorful bikes in and out of foot traffic on immaculate sidewalks.

He’s too hot in his leather jacket and the strap of his bag is rubbing the side of his neck raw but he walks with a purpose and doesn’t make eye contact when people look at him.

And people do look at him.

He’s six-foot-two, will probably hit six-three soon, dressed all in black and carrying a bag over his shoulder that’s nearly as big as he is. Doubtless, he stands out like some sort of hulking freckled raven among songbirds.

By the time he finds the administration building his palms are so sweaty it’s hard to get the stupidly ornate door open, and, once inside, standing in line on the marble floors, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the whispered assertion that’s been following him since he stepped foot on campus gets louder: _You do not belong here._

He’s felt that way for most his life, though, wherever he was, so it isn’t that disconcerting.

He clears his throat when it’s his turn, stepping up to the counter at the student center, trying to muster a smile.

“I’m a transfer,” he says, “Poindexter. I need to pick up my dorm keys.”

Before the receptionist has a chance to answer, though, the person behind him speaks:

“You’re the new defenseman?”

Dex turns to look at the speaker and pauses.

Because he recognizes the boy’s face.

He’d seen it on rosters and game footage.

During his furtive research, he’d memorized the names of three players at Samwell. Three players he thought were exceptionally good. Maybe NHL good. _These would be your peers_ , he’d told himself.

The first was Jack Laurent Zimmerman. Center. Senior. Number 1.

The second was Christopher Franklin Chow. Goalie. Junior. Number 55.

The third is now standing in front of him:

Derek Malik Nurse. Defenseman. Senior. Number 28.

What he hadn’t anticipated is that, off the ice, Derek Malik Nurse looks a lot less like the goon he does on the ice and a lot more like the kind of boy his father warned Dex against becoming, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists.

Because apparently off the ice Derek Malik Nurse wears cuffed skinny jeans stretched tight over the bulk of his thighs and half-unbuttoned floral shirts and pale, stretchy, yellow headbands to hold back his curls. His dark skin is clear and pore-less and the delicate gold chain around his neck should look out of place on someone so broad but it doesn’t.

He is irritatingly well-groomed.

He’s also waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” Dex manages, and it maybe comes out more aggressive than he intended.

“I’m Nursey,” Derek Malik Nurse says, extending a hand and smiling: straight white teeth and the easy confidence that comes with money. “I’m on the hockey team too.”

Nurse’s hand is warm and dry and the torn callouses on Dex’s own chapped hand scrape jarringly against Nurse’s soft palm.

“Dex,” Dex says, because if there’s one thing hockey has given him it’s a name that his father didn’t.

Nurse squeezes his fingers, holds on a moment past comfortable, grins wider so the skin around his grey-green eyes crinkles, and says: “Dex. Chill. Coach says you’re going to be my new D-partner.”

And all Dex can think is:

_Oh no._


	2. Chapter 2

William Poindexter—Dex—is possibly the _sharpest_ person that Nursey has ever met.

Everything about him is an angle.

“Oh hey,” Nursey says, pointing to the keys that the receptionist hands Dex. “You’re next door to me and Chowder.”

“What.”

Dex says the word like a statement, not a question.

“Room 221?” Nursey points to the keys again, feeling a little stupid. “All the hockey players are in the same dorm—House Martin? We call it ‘The Haus.’ You’re next door to me and one of our goalies, Chris Chow, in 220. If you don’t mind waiting, I can walk you over there in a second.”

“I have a map,” Dex says, which is…not what Nursey expected.

He recovers quickly.

“Well yeah, but I come with commentary. And the secret on how to not get locked in the laundry room. Which I will share with you. Because I am a kind and benevolent tour guide.”

“There’s a laundry room?”

And that—that might be shock.

Why a laundry room is shocking, Nursey has no idea.

“Ch-yeah,” he says. “Nice shit, too. Front loaders.”

He taps the still-warm plastic card in Dex’s hand. “Athletes don’t even have to pay for them, just slide your student ID and—” he snaps his fingers.

Dex doesn’t say anything.

“Mr. Nurse?” the receptionist says.

Right.

“Hey Angie,” Nursey says, pivoting to face her. “Mailroom said I had an oversized package and sent me down to you.”

She points to the long narrow box leaning on the wall a few feet away.

“Chill.”

He turns back to Dex but the other boy is already halfway to the doors.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, a little annoyed. “Dex. You mind helping me carry this back to the dorm, bro?”

Dex pauses, looking over his shoulder, and Nursey thinks for one brief, startling, moment that Dex might actually keep walking.

He doesn’t.

They balance Dex’s duffle bag down the center of the box and each take an end.

Nursey talks the whole way to the dorm, pointing out the dining hall, nodding to specific landmarks like the statue that will give you good luck before an exam if you fist-bump it, and trying to explain how lake quad is actually a pond but it’s still totally sweet and the guys are planning to go swim after the first practice of the season tomorrow if Dex wants to join them.

Dex doesn’t say anything, so Nursey keeps talking.

He’s good at talking, but he’s also quickly reevaluating his assumptions about William Poindexter—the kid who’s supposed to be his perfect defensive match. _Defensive_ is certainly true of him, but the instant chemistry Nursey was hoping for is…distressingly absent. Almost as distressingly absent as Dex is distressingly, aggressively, pretty.

He lapses into silence once they get up the stairs and he takes a minute to shovethe box inside his room before helping Dex with the special little lift-up-then-push maneuver that the dorm door handles require. Dex pauses, hand on the turned knob, and takes a breath—short, almost unnoticeable, but it seems significant—and then steps inside, sideways, like he doesn’t want to fully turn his back to Nursey, but also like it’s not intentional. Together, they consider the two bare beds. Two desks. Two chairs.

“You’re on your own,” Nursey says, though that’s probably obvious. “It used to be Leefer and Johnson’s room but Leefer graduated last year and Johnson is a towny. He decided to move back home for his last year. Probably because his parents travel a lot and he has a girlfriend now. Anyway, if you want to get rid of the extra bed and desk you can go talk to our Haus mom on the first floor—Georgia—and she’ll get maintenance to help you out.”

Dex nods but doesn’t say anything.

He sets his bag on the right side bed, the one that shares a wall with Nursey’s own bed next door, and then slowly pulls off his jacket and drapes it over the desk chair, crossing his arms as he moves to look out the window.

He’s skinnier than Nursey thought—the thin fabric of his black t-shirt clinging to the long, lean, slope of his spine from broad shoulders to narrow torso to even narrower waist.

His arms, similarly lean and mapped with visible veins, are just as freckled as the rest of him.

Nursey clears his throat.

“So,” he asks, maybe a little too loud. “Where’s the rest of your stuff? You getting it shipped separate, or—?”

Dex shrugs. “Can you tell me where the dining hall is?” he asks.

A question.

Thank god.

Nursey could sigh in relief.

“Yeah, bro. I’m starving. Lets grab some dinner.”

Dex nods.

***

The dining hall is overwhelming.

Dex stands there with his tray, uncertain where to begin once they’ve slid their cards through the reader at the door, because there is food _everywhere_. A salad bar to his right. Omelette station on the left. Pizza and hotdogs and burgers. Lasagna. Chicken. Meatloaf. Pasta. A cereal bar. Juices and milks and sodas and there’s a whole separate section for dessert around the corner.

He follows Nurse because he doesn’t want to look like a gaping idiot and he fills up his tray with all the same things Nurse does: chicken, pasta, mixed vegetables, a fruit cup, a pudding cup, cookie.

Well. Dex gets two cookies.

He feels like he did the first time he ever left Port Marta on a bantam hockey trip—when they’d stayed at a hotel and they were allowed to eat as much as they wanted at the buffet downstairs for dinner. Dex had gorged himself to the point that he’d nearly been sick, and he reminds himself of that night as he carefully doles out the portions on his plate.

The dining hall isn’t going anywhere.

He’ll have these options _every day_ now.

That realization is enough to almost make Derek Malik Nurses’ company bearable.

But not quite. Because Nurse clearly has no similar appreciation for the embarrassment of riches before them. Once they sit and begin eating—Dex at a careful, measured, pace—Nurse cheerfully complains about the chicken being too dry and the vegetables too soggy, and the unacceptable fact that Samwell doesn’t offer organic salad greens, and it’s a good thing Dex’s mouth is full and his hands are busy cutting his chicken because it distracts him from laughing. Or maybe punching Nurse in the face.

“I’m gunna go get some milk,” Nurse says as he’s sucking cookie crumbs off his fingers. “You want some? Probably should. Coach is going to ride you about your weight, dude. Just FYI.”

Dex does laugh then. A sharp, brittle thing that makes Nurse frown at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Every coach he’s had since he was ten and on his first real team—wearing third-hand skates and a frankenstein assemblage of gear from craigslist and the rink’s lost-and-found—has told him he needed to gain weight.

“You’re a big kid for your age, son,” his bantam coach said despairingly after nearly every practice, “But you’re too skinny. Just put some weight on and you’d be a more effective presence on the ice.”

It sounded easy, like that.

_Just put some weight on._

And then he’d moved up to Triple A and the refrain continued. They’d given him black and white print-outs of recommended caloric intake and carb to protein ratios and portion sizes and then later they’d ask if he was keeping up with his meal plans and workouts and he’d lie and say he was.

What they didn’t seem to understand is that _food costs fucking money._ And he didn’t have any. His family didn’t have any. They lived off last-minute mark-downs and seafood they caught themselves and WIC items his step mother snuck past his too-proud father. He had to work at the rink after hours to afford getting his skates sharpened, his uncle’s garage on weekends and his other uncle’s boat during the summers to pay even discounted team fees. He could afford to eat more healthy shit or he could afford hockey, but he definitely couldn’t afford both.

He doubts Derek Malik Nurse with his Ray Bans and Vineyard Vines shirt has ever had that problem.

So Dex stayed skinny and he made up for a lack of bulk with speed and aggression and anger. He learned how to use the size he did have. Learned to intimidate without having to use his body at all.

He let his tongue get as sharp as the ridges of his spine.

And as long as his numbers stayed up, which they did, coaches wrote off his weight as a fast metabolism and his attitude as the kind of superiority complex that comes from being the best athlete on a small team.

So when he sits there with his tray of food—more food, _healthy_ food, than he’s probably ever had in front of him in one sitting—and Nurse _bemoans it’s quality_ —

He decides his initial impression of Derek Malik Nurse was correct.

He knew Samwell was full of rich kids but he’s never really been around rich kids before.

Even on his last team, the spectrum ranged mostly from desperately poor, to sort of poor, to not poor.

_Rich_ is a whole new thing.

And apparently that thing is disdainful of perfectly good, fully cooked, within-date chicken.

What the fuck.

“Hey!” Nurse says, flailing a little and nearly knocking over his glass of milk. “Bitty! Jack! Shits! Come meet the new guy.”

Dex recognizes only one of the boys who approach: Jack Zimmerman, his new captain. Black hair. Blue eyes. He looks just like his father and he’ll probably go on to be just as famous if his hockey career continues on it’s current trajectory. The other two, one tall and narrow with long brown hair, the other short and compact with close-cropped blonde hair, have the general look of _athlete_ about them, and several empty plates on their trays, so he assumes they’re on the team too.

“This is Jack,” Nurse says, “Bitty”—he gestures to the blonde, “and Shitty,”—the brunette.

“Bitty and Shitty?”

“Hockey nick-names, ma’dude,” Shitty says. “You’ll have one soon enough if you don’t already.”

“Dex,” Dex says, before Nurse can potentially give his full name.

“Sha-weet,” Shitty says, offering him a closed fist. It takes him a second to bump Shitty’s knuckles with his own. Shitty doesn’t seem to notice the hesitation.

“So. Dex. Dexy. My man. You’re defense, right? Gunna be the yin to Nursey’s yang? The apple to his pie. The Holtsy to his Ransom?”

Dex has no idea what Shitty is talking about.

“Good lord, Shits, ease up,” the tiny blonde—Bitty? that should be easy enough to remember—says. “He probably hasn’t even met Rans and Holster yet,” he turns his attention from Shitty to Dex.

“Dex, Hi. Ignore him. He’s on a sugar high. As well as like, a normal high. It’s nice to meet you. Coach’s email said you’re from Maine, right?”

Bitty has a southern lilt to his speech that makes Dex take a second, closer, look at him.

He’s wearing a flannel shirt, rolled up to the elbows, jeans, a belt, and scuffed brown boots. While none of his clothing is threadbare or patched, none of it looks name-brand either. Not like the others two who, even in their athletic gear, wear wealth like a habit. Bitty is _not poor_ , Dex assesses, but not rich either. It’s enough to give Dex a little bit of hope. _Not poor_ is better than whatever the hell Nurse, Shitty, and Zimmerman are.

“Yeah, Maine,” Dex says, and then, because he knows it’s expected: “up the coast.”

Bitty makes a noise of agreement. “You look like someone who’s actually worked a day or two in your life,” and oh, Dex likes him already. “Any chance you know your way around kitchen appliances?”

“Some,” Dex says.

“Well, the oven at the Haus hasn’t wanted to wake up from her summer nap and maintenance can’t come until next week. I was thinking I’d go have a chat with her now. You care to join me?”

_Yes_ , he thinks. _Please._

“Sure.”

He stands, remembers to tip his head to Nurse and then picks up his tray.

“Nice to meet you,” he tells the others, and follows Bitty back to the lobby, depositing his dirty dishes in a bin by the exit.

Bitty touches his arm, pointing out the plasticware and takeaway boxes in case he ever needs one and Dex flinches. Just a little.

Bitty doesn’t say anything, but he does withdraw his hand.

“You here on scholarship?” he asks once they’re outside.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yessir. And I gotta say I’m happy to have you with us. Since Leefer graduated I thought I was going to be the only scholarship kid on the team this year and I love these boys to death but sometimes—“ Bitty sighs. “You know I was complaining about the oven on the way over here and Jack just offered to buy a new one rather than wait for maintenance to show up? A _whole oven_. Like that’s a thing that teenagers do?”

“Rich people,” Dex says.

“Lord, don’t I know it,” Bitty agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I'm putting the final touches on my syllabus for next semester and I'm getting excited! Classes start in less than three weeks (and move-in day/freshman camp is in 2 weeks). One my closest friends, who graduated last year, managed to grab a position at our university teaching the same intro sections as me and he'll be teaching in the classroom right next to mine on MWF morning. We've decided to do office hours at the same time so we can have lunch afterward at least once a week, which I'm REALLY looking forward to because A. he's good people but B. I'm going to need someone to keep me sane as I approach exams later in the semester. 
> 
> See you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

Within forty-eight hours Nursey decides that he does not particularly like William Poindexter.

Within a week he decides he might hate him.

He tries to be friends, probably harder than Dex deserves, frankly.

But nothing _works_.

The first night, when he gets back to the Haus after a run with Jack, they walk into the common room to the sound of Bitty and Dex in the kitchen. And Dex actually seems a little less—whatever he’d been before. He’s not holding himself like he might need to engage his fight or flight reflex at any moment and his face has settled into something that might be called a neutral expression, which progressively gets softer as Bitty, nearly choking on laughter, tries to finish a story about Shitty having absolutely no concept of what a single roll of toilet paper costs.

Nursey doesn’t know why the story is so funny to Bitty—like, Shitty never had a reason to buy toilet paper before. How would he know?—but by the end of the story Dex is actually, sort of, smiling.

It’s a good look for him.

“And so,” Bitty laughs, “he and Jack go off into town on some sort of _toilet paper crusade_ and come back with the entire back of Jack’s car full of different brands.”

“Seriously?” Dex says.

“Seriously. Shitty had no idea there were so many kinds. He kept a journal as he worked his way through them all. Broken down by brand, price, comfort, company policy, and environmental impact. He has a lot of opinions about toilet paper, now. Don’t get him started on it unless you want him to get out the journal and educate you.”

Dex doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing.

“That boy is going to do great things, one day,” Bitty finishes fondly. “You know, he’s petitioning the school board to change the dress code and hygiene rules so seniors are allowed to have facial hair? He’s arguing the rules infringe upon his bodily autonomy.”

“Can he even _grow_ facial hair?”

“You hush your mouth,” Bitty says, too delighted to mean it. “He’d certainly try if it was allowed. He says his face was made for a mustache.”

“You know, I can actually see that.”

“I can too, unfortunately—oh! Hey, Jack. Hey, Nursey. Y’all have a good run? First pie of the season will be ready in ten minutes or so.”

And any new softness sitting on Dex’s features evaporates the second Nursey and Jack round the corner from common room to kitchen. He straightens, wiping his hands off on the towel by the stove, and nods toward the stairs.

“Oh,” Bitty says. “You don’t want pie?”

“Nah.”

“Well, alright. I guess you’re probably tired and want to settle in. Thanks for your help!”

Dex nods and retreats.

Bitty frowns after him for a moment before taking a breath, pivoting to smile at Jack and Nursey, and offer them water like they’re not perfectly capable of getting out the mismatched glasses from the cabinet themselves. Southern hospitality is something else.

Nursey watches Dex’s back, the way his long fingers curl around the handrail on the banister, the way his battered jeans stretch over his thighs to accommodate taking two steps at a time up the stairs. Dex’s eyes meet his just as he turns to go out of sight at the first landing, and if his expression isn’t outright hostile, it’s definitely something close.

Nursey is baffled.

Things don’t exactly improve over the following days.

He invites Dex to grab coffee before their first day of class and froyo after practice, to the movies on Wednesday night and to the blacklight arcade in town with the rest of the team on Friday. To breakfast and lunch and dinner at the dining hall.

Dex says no, if he says anything, almost every time, unless its to the dining hall and even then the others are usually there and he mostly ignores Nursey. Not that he’s super talkative with anyone else, either. But still.

The following week, Nursey steals Dex’s phone after practice one day and adds him to the SMH group chat.

Which backfires rather spectacularly, though he has _no idea why_.

When he knocks on Dex’s door that evening to let him know that Bitty is experimenting with brownies downstairs, Dex is laying on his stomach on his still-bare mattress surrounded by still-bare walls with a chemistry book open in front of him and a pen clenched between his teeth.

“What,” Dex says flatly.

“Hey. Bitty made jalapeño brownies. Shitty is crying but still eating them. Did you get my text?”

“No,” he says, “And stop fucking adding me to your group chat. I keep leaving for a reason. It’s annoying as hell.”

“It’s team bonding, asshole,” Nursey says, “And you’re like, three years behind. Embrace it.”

“No. I have to pay for every shitty meme you post. I’m not wasting my money on grumpy cats and vine screen shots.”

“So just get unlimited texting like a normal human being.”

“Right, because that _doesn’t_ cost money.”

Nursey rolls his eyes. “Come on, man. We’re your team. We’re worth it.”

Dex just looks at him blankly.

“Get out of my room.”

“What?”

“Get out. Of my room.”

“Bro. Seriously? You need to chill.”

Dex slaps his textbook closed and stands up. “Fuck. _off_.”

Nursey fucks off.

He doesn’t try to add Dex to the group chat anymore.

The following night, after listening to a combination of Blink 182, Rage Against the Machine, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Paramour, Panic! At the Disco, 30 Seconds to Mars, Blue October, and the Goo Goo Dolls bleed from the room next to him for over an hour, Nursey bangs his fist against their shared wall.

“Hey, Poindexter. Could you maybe relive the 90’s a little quieter?” he yells.

“Try early 2000’s, asshole,” Dex yells back.

The music gets louder.

Chowder sighs from his bed on the other side of the room.

“Nursey,” he says.

But Nursey is already halfway into the hallway.

He knocks on Dex’s door because they’re practically adults and they can talk about this face to face like reasonable human beings, except when Dex opens the door he’s wearing the kind of expression that says this will probably either end in Nursey giving up or in Nursey getting punched.

“Dude,” Nursey says, because he’s already committed. “Have you ever heard of headphones?”

“I don’t have any.”

And like. What?

Nursey checks his watch. “Bookstore is open until 9. If you hurry you can go get a new pair before they close.”

“No.”

“ _Jesus_. Why not? I’ll give you a pair of mine, then. What is your _deal?”_

_“_ Fuck off. I don’t want your headphones.”

“Then turn the damn music down. I’m trying to read and your angst is harshing my vibe.”

_Harshing your vibe_ , Dex mouths, one eyebrow arched with infuriating condescension.

And Nursey is readying a cutting retort except he suddenly notices the speaker the music is coming from.

It’s nice. Very nice. He knows this from experience because it’s the same speaker his mother brings with her when she travels. The exact same: palm-sized and delicate and a pale rose-gold pink. The speaker is weirdly out of place with the rest of Dex’s black, minimalist, grunge-punk aesthetic, especially because the iPod attached to it, with an aux cord that’s striped with electrical tape, is absolutely ancient. It’s in weirdly good shape—practically looks new—but it’s also probably at least a decade old, a brick of technology with a black and white screen and circular track pad. Nursey hasn’t seen one of those since he was a little kid.

“Bro,” Nursey says. “I appreciate the vintage iPod but who’d you steal that speaker from?”

Dex’s neck flushes red.

“I _didn’t_ steal it,” he says, and the words are so clipped, so full of fury, that Nursey takes a step back. He didn’t mean to imply that Dex really _had_ stolen it. But—

“Chill, dude. I was kidding. It’s nice, though. My mom has the same one.”

That doesn’t make Dex look any less furious.

Whatever, this wasn’t the point of him coming over anyway.

“Look,” he says, palms up, not like he’s begging, but…okay, maybe a little like he’s begging, “You may not care about your grades but I care about mine and I can’t concentrate on Pablo Neruda with your angst fest music coming through the wall next door.”

“I care,” Dex says, firm and grating like that somehow wins him the argument.

“Okay,” Nursey says slowly, “Then turn down your shitty music or let me give you some headphones.”

Dex doesn’t take the headphones.

But he does turn down the shitty music.

After a few weeks, and a few more doorway-stand offs they have a tentative truce on the music front and Dex starts talking a little more. But rather than ignoring Nursey or giving him short responses that usually contain the words _fuck_ and _off_ , now he’s added in being a sarcastic little shit as well who rolls his eyes through conversations about gay rights or economics or politics and straight up leaves the common room when Nursey and Shitty get in a friendly debate/loud discussion about racial inequality in the Ivy League.

Which. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. So Dex is a little racist. A majority of Samwell students are. And he’s not even as vocal about it as some—like Chad in his political science class who likes to sit behind him and quietly refer to Nursey as _Affirmative Action_ when the teacher isn’t in earshot.

It sucks, but it's something he's resigned to. He's had time to become resigned to it. 

Regardless, after two months, Nursey can solidly say that he and Dex are not friends.

But to make matters worse, for all his terrible personality traits, Dex is still entirely, unfairly, attractive.

_And_ Nursey sees him naked on a near-daily basis in the locker room.

So now he knows that the freckles really are _everywhere_ and—

Oh god.

There are the tattoos to consider.

And Nursey does. Consider them.

The first day of practice, Nursey had been studiously ignoring Dex in the locker room when Ransom whistled something about _wicked ink, bro,_ and then everyone was crowded around Dex and Nursey _had_ to look and—

Dex has four tattoos.

The largest is a series of greyscale interconnected celtic-looking knots that form a band around his right arm, high up, nearly to his shoulder. It’s just high enough to be covered by the sleeve of a t-shirt—clearly professional work with sharp lines and beautiful shading.

Equally beautiful is the rose under his left collarbone: black and white, fully bloomed, the outside petals just starting to curl with rippled darkened edges.

The third is a date that looks far less professional: _2-11-2017_ that hugs the curve of his ribcage.

The fourth is a small, chaotic mess of wobbly, faded, blue ink on the top of his right foot.

“A rabbit,” Dex says when Bitty asks, as if it should be obvious.

“Bless its heart,” Bitty says.

“You’re seventeen,” Nursey says faintly, like maybe if he protests with the semantics of age and legality the ink will somehow disappear.

Dex doesn’t say anything.

That’s a habit of his.

So. The tattoos, even the shitty ones, just round out the unfairness of the William Poindexter situation. Because Nursey has a type and that type is apparently _terrible_.

The worst thing, though.

The _worst_ thing.

Is that they play really, _really_ , good hockey together.

He knows some players just click—he’s seen it, on television and in person during NFL games and, to a degree, with Rans and Holster. But he’s never personally experienced chemistry like this with someone before. He has a constant, weirdly innate knowledge of where Dex is at all times on the ice. And once they’ve played a few games the coaches start them on the first line because their productivity has easily eclipsed Ransom and Holster’s and. Well. They’re just _really damn good_ together.

Not that you’d know it from the way Dex treats him.

Off the ice, Dex is still mostly quiet and reserved, if occasionally condescending and nearly always profane. On the ice, he’s abrasive and opinionated and even more profane.

Which would be a problem if he was that way with everyone, but he’s not. He immediately defers to Jack, quiets down, ducks to make himself smaller around Bitty, listens intently when Rans and Holster give him advice, and even playfully rough-houses a little with Chowder and the rookies sometimes.

But with Nursey?

Criticism. Always.

It's not loud criticism, though. Or aggressive to the point of physical conflict. And he’s nicer during games, which is a little unexpected, but during practice it’s like Dex is on some sort of non-stop fault-finding mission.

He criticizes Nursey’s puck handling during tracking drills, his back checking during neutral zone drills, and his ability to be clairvoyant, apparently, during team defensive zone breakout drills.

_Where were you?_ Dex snaps, after one of the rare instances when his pass had just missed Nursey’s stick. _Why weren’t you there?_

And he wants to say, “Maybe because I’m not a fucking mind reader, _William_.” except he’s learned not to use Dex’s real name unless he’s really spoiling for an argument because Dex, for some reason, absolutely hates his name.

And after a week of frustration--trying and failing to be this pretty asshole's friend--Nursey stops biting his tongue and gives back just as good he gets.

Jack frowns at them a lot as the season progresses and Bitty is clearly distressed whenever he’s on the bench next to them, and the coaches give each other a lot of “we’re having entire conversations without speaking” looks whenever he and Dex snarl at each other in the locker room, but—

No one says anything. Apart from Ransom and Chowder who both express tentative confusion and concern over Dex's vitriol and ask if maybe he should talk to the coaches. But Nursey doesn't want to create problems. He can deal with it like he's always dealt with the same type of shit.

Because Nursey is playing some of the best hockey of his life and Dex probably is too and—

Well the coaches _love_ Dex.

Almost as much as they love Jack, which is saying something.

Dex is the first one on the ice and the last one off. He never goes out on school or game nights. He follows his meal plans and his workouts to the letter—never has cheat days and always goes back to the dining hall right before it closes at eight to have a last protein shake every night. Why he doesn’t just keep milk and powder in the Haus kitchen like everyone else, Nursey doesn’t know, but. Even he has to admit: William Poindexter is the perfect athlete and a near-perfect D-partner.

If only he wasn’t such a dick of a person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update in honor of the Tumblr anon who requested it for their birthday. Happy birthday!
> 
> Thanks for being patient through the "boring" bit of the story--things will start to get interesting next chapter!
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I made a coffee table and am currently attempting to DIY a 6ft wall hanging while listening to audio books and generally having a lovely time. Feel free to follow my pre-move and moving shenanigans on Tumblr as I prepare for exams, the beginning of the semester, and relocation . See you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: a brief police encounter followed by short discussion of a previous, racially motivated, abusive, police encounter

Dex loves Samwell.

The teachers and coaches are top-quality, the resources at the library are frankly a little overwhelming, the food is fantastic, and the grounds—well. There’s a reason Samwell is usually listed as one of the most beautiful boarding schools in the US.

The classes are difficult, especially since his previous school district wasn’t exactly top-tier, but between the free laptop he was able to check out from the library, and the tutoring center, he’s making A’s and B’s. And he’s managed to get a part-time job from an aging mechanic named Benny in town—picking up slack whenever he doesn’t have practice or a game or tutoring. Which isn’t that often, and means he has to skip pretty much any extra curricular hang-outs the rest of the team invite him to, but it’s not like he can afford to go to the arcade anyway and Benny loaned him a shitty bike for the semester that Dex actually kind of enjoys riding along the fifteen minute stretch of back roads into town. He also likes the work. It’s usually pretty easy, monotonous, stuff Benny has him doing: oil changes and tire patches, helping him as a tool lackey and cleaning up around the garage, but it pays well and Benny is soft-spoken and kind and it’s a nice escape to familiarity from all the newness of Samwell.

The hockey, though.

Hockey is the best thing about Samwell.

On the first of October, Dex is included in a USA Today article about promising prep-school NHL prospects. It focuses mostly on Jack, but they do have a rather nice picture of Dex scoring top-shelf and a solid paragraph that declares while “unknown until this season” he’s an adept defensive player who’s impressive stats may elevate him to become a “dark horse” in the upcoming draft. Chowder and Nurse get mentioned in the article as well, but only mentioned. Chowder won’t be eligible for another year, so that’s not too surprising, but Dex is a little shocked that Nurse doesn’t get more attention. Because he’s good. _So_ good. And no small part of the reason that Dex’s performance is through the roof.

After that, he starts googling his name every few days and it keeps…showing up. In things. Nothing big. Nothing really noteworthy aside from the fact that it’s his name and it’s being included in lists of players who will definitely get drafted.

He’d gotten used to the occasional scouts or visiting GMs sitting in the stands during games and practice—Jack is, after all, the second coming of hockey Jesus—but twice now, instead of coming to shake Jack’s hand after a game, the men in suits have sought Dex out and asked him about his future plans. Could he see himself on the east coast? Does he want to play D1 or go straight to the NHL?

It takes him several nights of loud music— _fuck you Nurse, I’m having a crisis_ —to wrap his head around the fact that those are potentially both options for him now.

So the hockey.

The hockey is good.

Derek Nurse, though.

Derek Malik Nurse is a problem.

Because he doesn’t make _any_ sense.

At first, Dex thought he was your standard douche-bro rich athlete with muscles on muscles and an Instagram full of shirtless pics. But now he knows that Nurse also gets his eyebrows threaded and has a skincare routine, that he’s a hard-worker, makes all A’s, listens to weird instrumental music, and lets Lardo paint his nails. He swears like a sailor on the ice and has no problem getting physical in games, but spends his free time on Sundays setting up a hammock by the lake, playing the ukulele, and reading poetry.

_Poetry_.

And the poetry is…a thing.

Nurse is taking poetry as an elective and apparently has even published a few pieces he’s written, not that Dex looked them up in the library or anything, and according to Shitty he goes to open mic night at a coffee shop in the city sometimes. And Dex has caught him, every now and then, getting teary, maybe, over a book, sometimes murmuring the words, sometimes in _French_ and that’s—

But Derek Malik Nurse is also a moron when it comes to things like money and any concept of how people who don’t have trust funds live.

Like the time they were all in the common room watching the Sharks play, and Bitty asked at intermission how Nurse’s monthly talk with his grandmother went and Nurse said fine, but she’d spent most of the call complaining about the fact that the HOA for her house in Texas—because of course she had multiple houses—was imposing water restrictions due to a drought, and since she obviously couldn’t _stop_ watering the impeccable landscaping, she and most of her neighbors were having to pay fines now.

And Dex hadn’t meant to say anything but he couldn’t really stop himself.

“So what happens when the city runs out of water because too many people are just paying the fines?” Dex asked. “Fines don’t do shit for the actual problem.”

Nurse shrugged. “Start buying bottled water and wait for a hurricane? One of her neighbors got like, a grey water system set up. So I guess they’re off the grid now anyway. And another one has this refillable cistern thing. I think my uncle was suggesting she drill for her own water? Because there’s an aquifer under the property.”

“Okay,” Dex said tightly. “But what about normal people?”

“Normal people,” Nurse repeated. “What do you mean?”

Bitty laid a hand on Dex’s arm before he could answer.

“He means,” Bitty said, far more gently than Dex would have. “People who can’t afford to drill their own well, or install a grey water system, or fill their own cistern.”

“Or buy bottled water,” Dex had to add. “The kind of people who don’t have lawns in the first place.”

“Oh.”

Nurse looked suddenly uncomfortable.

“Well, shit,” he said. “I don’t know. That’s fucked up.”

And. Well. That was something.

But despite the fact that, in many ways, Nurse is the exact sort of cavalier rich kid Dex expected him to be, often carelessly, infuriatingly, wasteful…he’s still _nice._

Not to Dex, probably because Dex is admittedly an asshole to him, but he’s not the entitled dick Dex initially assumed he would be. He does little thoughtful shit all the time: running errands, and staying after practice to help the coaches with gear. He brings Lardo coffee to the art building when he knows she’s going to be working late on a project and picks up extra mason jars for Bitty when he notices the stash is getting low. He helps the rookies with their English papers and watches tape with Jack when he’s stressed and he always washes dishes in the kitchen after they’ve eaten something at the Haus.

So Dex, maybe, has some reevaluating he needs to do.

Especially….

Well.

Especially when it comes to race.

Dex has never had a black friend before. Not that he’d really had _friends_ , per say, regardless, and definitely not that _Nurse_ is a friend, but his hometown is overwhelmingly white so race was never a thing that got talked about unless it was like, in history class talking about the civil war.

His second day at Samwell, he’d walked into the common room to Nursey and Shitty talking about white privilege and Dex had made a disgusted sound and turned right around and left because in no world did _Dex_ have more privilege than Derek Malik Nurse. And sitting on his naked mattress, sewing closed a tear in the collar of one of three shirts he owned, Dex had stewed in frustration and embarrassment, adding the words _white privilege_ to the annoyance he’d felt toward Nursey after the whole food-in-the-cafeteria-thing, and it all just sort of spilled out on the ice at practice the next day. And the day after that. And. And then it was just habit. Even if he knew it wasn’t really fair.

Except then the thing with the cop happens.

It is, actually, the first time Dex has ever been in Nurse’s car. Bitty needs more butter and Nurse volunteers to go pick some up, but Dex also needs some 1/2 inch screws to fix one of the sagging light fixtures in the second-floor bathroom and he doesn’t trust Nurse to _find_ the hardware store, much less the correct screws once he gets there. So they go together. In Nurse’s beautiful white exterior, brown leather interior, GT4 Porsche Cayman. Because, naturally, that’s what Derek Malik Nurse drives.

Dex feels a little like screaming when he eases into the passenger seat. But he can respect the fact that the car is clean, well-kept, and clearly loved, and Nurse shifts with the smooth, habitual, grace of someone who has been driving a stick since well before it was legal.

Dex closes his eyes and listens to the engine hum and lets the cool—nearly too cold—wind from the open windows push against his face.

And then they’re pulled over.

Nurse wasn’t speeding. Dex knows this because Dex had been judging Nurse a little for his strict adherence to the speed limit. It was an empty road at almost 7pm and he was sitting on 385 horsepower. Live a little.

So Dex honestly has no idea why a cop idling at an intersection pulls a u-turn to follow them for a mile and then turn on his siren.

Nurse pulls over to the side of the road with studied care, hands on the steering wheel. 10 and 2.

Dex reaches for the glove compartment.

“Is your insurance in here? Or—“

“Don’t,” Nurse says. “Just. Sit there. Please.”

It’s the _please_ that gets to him.

Dex doesn’t think Nurse has ever said _please_ to him before.

He considers the tight clench of Nurse’s fingers on the steering wheel, then the smear of red and blue in the review mirror, and obligingly goes still.

Nurse slowly reaches for his wallet only after the cop asks for his license, but he hands over his student ID before anything else.

“This isn’t your license, son,” the man says, and then, a second later, in a completely different voice, “Oh, you go to Samwell?”

“Yes, sir,” Nurse says. “We both play on the hockey team, there. Sorry about that, sir. Habit. Here’s my license.”

The cop ducks a little to get a better look at Nursey, then Dex, his posture suddenly a lot more friendly than before, and asks for proof of insurance.

“Can you tell us why you pulled us over?” Dex asks, and then adds, “uh, sir?” when Nursey hisses _Dex_ under his breath.

The man tells them to “sit tight,” and walks back to his squad car.

“What part of ‘just sit there’ did you _not_ understand?” Nurse says, sharp and low once the man is out of hearing range. “Jesus Christ. _Please_ don’t say anything else, okay?”

And Dex looks at him, baffled, because a docile, compliant, maybe even scared? Derek Malik Nurse kind of freaks him out.

After several minutes, the cop comes back and feeds them some bullshit line about thinking the registration had been expired—which is stupid, the windshield is crystal clear and 2017 and 2018 look nothing alike—with a _sorry to bother you, boys_ , and _have a nice evening_.

Nurse pulls back onto the road, going even slower than he had been before, and once they get to the hardware store he just sits there for a minute after taking his seatbelt off, hands on his knees.

“So what the fuck was that?” Dex asks. “Are you afraid of cops or something?”

He knows Nurse gets upset about news stories where police shoot unarmed black people. But Nursey isn’t anything like those people on the news. Some guy living in the projects selling individual cigarettes or stealing shit from a convenience store is about as far removed from Derek Malik Nurse and his Cayman GT4 as you can get.

Nurse shifts, pulling his phone out of his back pocket and scrolls through his photo reel for a second before shoving the phone in Dex’s face.

Dex takes it from from him, holding it far enough away that he’s not cross-eyed. And pauses.

It’s Nurse, smiling, in a suit that’s clearly tailored to fit him. On either side of him are two blonde, middle-aged people whose clothing combined is probably worth more than tuition for a semester at Samwell. The man has very white teeth, his arm around Nurse’s shoulder. The woman is holding Nurse’s hand, leaning into him.

It takes Dex a minute to figure out what he’s looking at.

“Are these… your parents?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“They’re, uh.”

“White,” Nurse says flatly. “Yeah. I know.”

Dex doesn’t know where to go from there.

“I was adopted,” Nurse says, and this is probably the most un-chill Dex has ever seen him.

“Oh.”

“I was arrested when I twelve.”

It takes Dex a minute to recover from the conversational whiplash. “What?”

“When I was twelve. I was arrested. Because, see. Most black parents, they give their kids—especially their boys—a talk. Even when they’re little. They tell them to be careful with police. Respectful. Calm. Even if they think they’re being treated unfairly. Except my parents never gave me that talk. Because they didn’t know they needed to. So when I was twelve and meeting up with a friend one day from my school, waiting outside his building on the upper east side, and the police stopped to question me, and wanted to search my backpack because I matched the description of a _twenty-three year old suspect_ , I didn’t stay calm or respectful. I was charged with resisting arrest and police battery and they didn’t let me call my mom for five hours.”

The cracked way Nurse say “mom” makes Dex’s stomach go heavy and sour with something he can’t put a name to. He wants to respond but _thats not fair_ seems both painfully obvious and horribly trite.

“My parents threatened to sue the shit out of them so charges were dropped and the guy ended up losing his job. But I had nightmares for over a year afterward. So yes. I _am_ afraid of cops.”

“Nurse,” Dex says, but he keeps talking.

“My parents have four houses. Manhattan, Telluride, LA, Paris. I haven’t been arrested since that day but do you want to know how many times I’ve been stopped in my own neighborhoods or hotels—not because I was doing anything wrong, just because I “might be lost” or because they wanted to make sure the car I was driving really belonged to me. You want to know how many times I’ve had the cops called on me because someone saw me through the windows of a penthouse or on the balcony to my own bedroom, watering plants, and thought I was stealing shit? How many times I’ve been stopped and questioned waiting in lobbies? How many times I’ve been followed around high-end jewelry stores or art exhibits? Money is—I realize I’m crazy privileged when it comes to money—ridiculously lucky. But _no amount of money_ can change the fact that I’m black. ”

Dex swallows. He feels like maybe Nurse isn’t just talking about the police thing anymore.

“I didn’t know,” Dex says.

“Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Nurse turns off the engine abruptly and opens the driver’s side door.

Dex scrambles to follow him.

They go into the store.

The rest of the trip is silent.

They kind of avoid each other for the following week because that was dangerously close to a heart-to-heart and Dex is vehemently opposed to those and Nurse seems a little embarrassed, maybe, and Dex _definitely_ is. But Dex also starts paying more attention to Nurse, who, he’d already started to realize, is more than just a pretty boy with money. Maybe a lot more.

Dex realizes there is a distinct possibility that he’s fucked up in a major way.

Because the problem with paying even more attention to Nurse, intentionally sitting closer to him in their shared classes, actually listening to his discussions with Shitty, watching the way he moves through the campus and around the Haus, is that he starts _noticing_ even more things about him.Things like the way that, off the ice, Nurse has turned non-confrontation into an art form. That sometimes other students say fucked up things to him, like Chad in their Political Science class, but Nurse doesn’t draw attention to their shitty behavior, or, if he does, he offers slanted rebukes—kind enough that the perpetrators aren’t embarrassed. Dex notices that sometimes girls—rich, beautiful, white girls— talk about Nurse like dating him, sleeping with him, would be something to check off a list, or use in an argument with their parents. And Dex can’t believe he hadn’t even _noticed_ it was happening until now but he also sort of can because Nurse talks about big injustice with Shitty and Lardo and the guys. News stories and protests and world-wide phenomenon. But the little things. The daily things. The things that happen to _him_. Apparently he just just deals with them with wan smiles or gentle, humorous criticism, or feigned ignorance like it’s normal. And it probably is. And that’s—that’s not okay.

Dex also notices other things. Like how Nurse talks to the Haus plants in the window of the kitchen, how he’s especially gentle when he waters them—lifting their leaves and testing the soil with his pinky finger. Dex notices the way he handles his books just as gently—never folding back the front cover or splaying them face-down. The way he chews on his bottom lip when he’s concentrating and touches his throat when he’s uncertain.

Dex notices the way he flirts, bashful and wide-eyed at the secret post-game parties the SMH hosts in their common room. Which, Dex doesn’t think they’re actually that secret, since Georgia isn’t an idiot, but they don’t play music very loud and if people drink they’re all just walking to whatever dorm they live in at the end of the night anyway.

Unlike Holster and Ransom and some of the others, though, who will occasionally disappear with a girl, Nurse never does. He dances with them, and seems to enjoys it, but his hands never wander and he never seems interested in taking things further despite the fact that the girls often clearly are. Which doesn’t makes sense to Dex until the Halloween party.

Dex refuses to wear a costume, much to Bitty’s dismay, and sits on the stairs, watching rather than participating. Watching Nurse, mostly, because apparently that’s what he does now.

Except instead of demure flirting with pink-lipped girls, tonight, a toga-clad Nurse is dancing with a boy in leather pants and no shirt.

Close.

Head ducked into his neck.

Mouth against his ear.

And the other boy’s hands are in Nurse’s back pockets and his thigh is pushed up against—

Dex leans his head back and closes his eyes.

He sets his cup aside because he’s done with alcohol for the night.

It’s not a big deal.

So Nurse is maybe gay.

That’s fine.

That’s whatever.

Except now he’s thinking about it: Nurse _being gay_. Like. With other boys. Maybe leather pants boy, even.

Which is possibly why he doesn’t notice that someone is approaching him until a hand wraps itself around his wrist.

“Dex,” Nurse says, smile wide and broad, and definitely drunk. Nurse doesn’t get drunk at parties, though. Not usually.

“Dex,” he says again. “You should dance with me.”

Dex is so shocked by the invitation that he doesn’t turn it down.

Nurse takes his silence as acceptance and pulls him up and out into the crush of teenagers and Dex doesn’t know what to do—how to orient his body or move it or—anything. And Nurse keeps trying to show him, clumsy but enthusiastic, with a hand on his hip or his shoulder or his back and he can’t—

He pushes away and flees up the stairs, except Nurse follows him, laughing.

“You’re about as bad at dancing as you are good at hockey,” Nurse shouts, louder than needed in the comparative quiet of the second-floor hallway.

It takes him a minute to parse that.

“That’s really bad then,” he says.

“Yes,” Nurse agrees somberly.

“Fuck you,” Dex says, because he feels like he should.

“I mean. It was a compliment,” Nurse says, reaching for Dex’s wrist again. “Because. Because you’re really good at hockey. It’s—your hockey is nice. Pretty.”

“You think my hockey is pretty?” Dex repeats.

“Yeah. It’s like,” Nurse absently pets the back of Dex’s hand with his thumb, tracing the cordillera of Dex’s scarred knuckles. “It’s so smooth. And delicate. Elegant. But also rough. Aggressive. Angry. But also, like, happy? Your hockey is a paradox.”

“Jesus,” Dex says. “I thought you were a poet.”

“I do sometimes.”

“You do what?”

“Poetry. Or, uh. Write poetry, about you. Because you’re so—you could be so much. I think. If you weren’t so—”

Nurse sighs.

“It helps. To write about you. Sometimes. When I'm angry. Or sad.”

Dex suddenly feels a lot more sober, standing there in the hallway, for all intents and purposes holding hands with Derek Malik Nurse. Who Dex has apparently been such a dick to that he's inspired sad poetry. Fuck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nurse sighs, letting go of his hand. He stumbles a little and Dex catches him before he can topple back down the stairs.

“Don’t tell, okay?” Nursey says, leaning into him. “About the poetry.”

“Don’t tell who?”

“Dex.”

“Okay,” Dex agrees. “I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> School starts in four days!!! I am excited. I've already picked out my clothes for the first week. I also finalize my qualifying exams date next week. A little more anxious than excited about that. Deacon is entirely recovered from his surgery, if you followed me over from LRPD and were concerned about that, and I've started to pack my non-essentials since I'll be moving in two weeks. Ah! So much is happening. Good news is I've managed to work up quite the chapter buffer (I'm working on 10 right now) so weekly updates should continue for well into the semester. See you next week!


	5. Chapter 5

Nursey wakes up in his bed with no real recollection of how he got there.

It’s a strange feeling—one he’s never dealt with before and doesn’t particularly want to experience again, either.

He remembers drinking. Even though he usually doesn’t. He remembers getting the text from his dad: _sorry, bud, I just don’t think it’s going to happen this year_ and the text from his mom: _I know you’re disappointed sweetheart, but we’ll see you at Christmas!_ and thinking: _fuck it._ He remembers things going warm and hazy and a little maudlin. He remembers dancing. With a boy. Warm sweat-slick skin and a filthy mouth. He remembers Dex watching him—expecting disgust and not understanding why he didn’t receive it. He remembers thinking it was a shame that Dex was so Dex. Sitting on the stairs. Watching rather than participating. He remembers thinking, at the height of drunk logic, that maybe if Dex did less stair-sitting and more dancing that he wouldn’t be such a dick. That maybe Nursey could teach him to dance and things would be better.

And that’s about where his memory ends.

There’s a cup of water on the window sill by his head, a package of peanut butter crackers, and two Advil liquid gels, and he doesn’t know if he should be thanking his drunk self or someone else but damn does he appreciate whoever it was.

“Ugh,” Chowder says from his bed.

“Ehgh,” Nursey agrees.

He lays there for another hour, waiting for the painkillers to take the edge off, and then squints his way to the bathroom for a shower. When he gets downstairs, wearing sunglasses and feeling accomplished, Ransom is sitting in the common room looking annoyingly chipper, eating a sandwich. There’s one boba tea in front of him and another one sitting invitingly next to him.

“The bubble truck just made its rounds,” Rans says. “I got you green tea mango.”

Nursey is too hungover to find this suspicious until he’s already sat down.

“Bro,” Nursey says. “Did you know I love you?”

Rans hums, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“So,” he says after a leisurely chew. “You know how we were talking the other day about you getting pulled over? With Dex?”

Nursey takes a minute to swallow.

“Yeah?”

“You have any idea why Dex came and asked me about my feelings on white privilege this morning?”

Nursey nearly chokes on a boba pearl.

“What?”

“Dude,” Rans says. “He was stress-cleaning when I got downstairs. Like. Did you know the grout in the kitchen is actually grey?”

Nursey did not.

He stands to lean around the corner to see for himself.

Huh. So it is.

“And the minute I came in he got all weird and asked if he could talk to me and the next thing I knew I was trying to explain the difference between like, privilege in general and race-related privilege and how discrimination and oppression are different from racism and why ‘reverse racism’ isn’t a thing before I’d even had a chance to make coffee.”

“Well shit,” Nursey says. “How, uh. How did that go?”

“Good, maybe? Not like, conversation with Shitty good. But not bad. He didn’t really say much of anything in response—“

“Surprise,” Nursey mutters.

“But he did ask questions, mostly about my personal experiences, and he didn’t argue. Looked pretty horrified more often than not. When I asked him why the sudden interest he just said he was trying to figure some things out.”

Rans is looking at him in a way that is probably meant to be significant.

“Okay?” Nursey says.

Rans sighs.

“So, did anything happen last night to prompt this? Or is the fact that you two left the party together just a weird coincidence? I had initially assumed a fight except neither one of you have any bruises and you didn’t show up in my room at 2 am for a standard _I need to vent about Dex_ sesh. So now I’m afraid it was a drunk hookup which is even more concerning than a fight, just FYI.”

“I don’t—“

He remembers, then: standing in the hallway. Basically holding Dex’s hand and Dex letting him. Dex cursing at him, but helping him into his room. Dex taking off his shoes, complaining about what a disaster he was. Dex pulling up his blankets, leaving water and advil and crackers from Dex’s own room on the window sill and making him promise that he’d drink at least some of the water before he went to sleep or Dex would murder him.

“Uh,” Nursey says.

Ransom sighs again.

“I’d tell you not to fuck up your friendship in case it affects your hockey, but you two seem to function best on dysfunction anyway.”

Nursey shrugs.

It’s true.

“That being said, if you’re thinking about starting something with him, maybe talk to like, a professional, first. Because whatever you two have going on is not healthy right now. Hockey aside, adding sex to that shit show would probably be a personal disaster, even if it was like, really hot sex. Which,” he muses, going contemplative, “I can definitely see that.”

“Oh my god,” Nursey says. “I didn’t— _we_ didn’t—and I don’t _want_ to start anything with him. Please stop talking.”

“What are we not talking about?” Holster says, coming down the stairs.

“Nothing,” Nursey says.

“Nursey’s hate boner for Dex,” Ransom says.

“Oh,” Holster says, “rad. Probably not healthy, though, just FYI. One cannot subsist on hate sex alone. You also gotta get that tender lovin’, bro. And I don’t know if Dex does tender.”

“That’s what I said,” Rans agrees, bumping fists with him.

Nursey picks up his boba tea with as much pride as he can muster while wearing sunglasses indoors. “You’re both terrible and I’m leaving,” he says.

***

For the next week, Dex is weird.

He seems to be actively trying to be nicer to Nursey and mostly failing. Because he’ll be like halfway through a muttered snipe about Nursey’s inability to keep up with line changes and then his eyes will go kind of wide and he’ll just—stop.

“Oh my god,” Nursey says after the third time it’s happened in a one-hour period. “Would you just say it? You’re going to give yourself brain damage if you keep suppressing your angst.”

“Fuck you,” Dex says. But he goes back to criticizing Nursey’s back checking with a sharp smile and Nursey cheerfully points out that Dex’s passes are looking particularly sloppy today, and the guys are all giving them looks that are different than the usual looks they get, but whatever. Their hockey is fine. They’re fine. Everything is fine.

“Hey,” Dex says later as they’re changing after practice. “Does anyone have an electric razor? Mine broke and I need to do my hair.”

And Nursey is in the habit of not looking at Dex in the locker room, but he allows himself a quick glance at his hair which—yeah. It is getting a little long, comparatively, especially now that it’s wet and sticking up a little from the shower and there might even be like, a subtle wave happening?

“Bro,” Nursey says, before he can stop himself. “Is your hair curly?”

“Fuck you,” Dex says.

So that’s a yes.

Nursey tries to imagine it.

Dex with little ringlet red curls.

It makes his head hurt.

“You can borrow my clippers tonight,” Ransom says. “If you need help, you should ask Holster. He does me—“

“We suspected as much,” Shitty says.

“—every two weeks or so,” Ransom finishes rolling his eyes at Shitty.

“I can do it myself,” Dex says. “But thanks. I’ll borrow it tonight.”

They go swimming at the lake after practice because they’re gluttons for punishment and “it’s basically the same thing as an ice bath, guys,” Shitty says as they shiver their way out into the water, “good for our muscles.”

While it’s been strangely temperate the past few weeks, the lake is still _really_ cold.

The sun also sets early in the afternoon this time of year, so the trees around the lake are dropping fire-colored leaves into water that reflects the same palette from the sky.

It’s breathtakingly beautiful and Nursey just stands there, forgetting to shiver, on the sand bar, appreciating the view, until someone hooks an ankle around the back of one of his knees and he’s suddenly face-first in the water.

He surfaces with a very manly shriek, and a rush of adrenaline. He thinks he may never sleep again.

“Shitty, I swear to god—“

Except it wasn’t Shitty.

It was Dex.

Dex, who has never joined them for a swim, but is now standing, waist-deep, in the water behind him. His freckles are stark against the canvas of his milk-pale skin, against the backdrop of dark water and fall colors, and sunset.

He looks weirdly uncertain for someone who’d just committed an act of lake warfare.

“Dex,” Nursey says dumbly.

“Nurse,” he agrees.

“You,” Nursey says, “are a dead man.”

And Dex’s mouth curves up, wicked and happy.

It’s a well-matched fight that follows. It might not have been, back at the beginning of the semester, but Dex has gained weight and learned quickly how to use it. His stomach is lean, now, rather than concave. His chest is defined. His shoulders even broader.

Eventually, Dex gets Nursey in a headlock, not really trying to choke him, more just letting him stumble around while Dex clings to his back like a large, warm, slippery, leech. Nursey lets him for a while before pretending to faint, dumping them both in the water where they float around, slapping ineffectively at each other before eventually crawling out to join the others on the beach, coughing.

They all watch the sun finish setting, teeth chattering, before walking barefoot back to the Haus, and then crowd into the bathroom to shower and yell at each other about using up all the hot water.

Later, as Nursey is leaving the bathroom with his toothbrush, he runs into a shirtless, boxer-clad Dex in the hallway holding Ransom’s razor and its accompanying kit, looking down at it with a sort of baffled distrust that Nursey does not in any way find endearing.

“You need help with that?” Nursey asks.

“No,” Dex says. “I’ve got it.”

“I think you’re going to need help,” Nursey says.

Dex’s shoulders go a little tight. “I’ve been shaving my own head for the last ten years,” he says. “I think I can handle it.”

“Well, sure,” Nursey says. “But that’s not just a standard razor. It’s a needlessly fancy sci-fi razor with twenty buttons and Bluetooth connectivity and I’m sure it will offend your utilitarian sensibilities.”

“So your help would be useful how?”

“Because, as you may have noticed, I also occasionally enjoy needlessly fancy things. And generally know how to operate them.”

“I had noticed.”

“Great,” Nursey says, reaching to take it out of Dex’s hands. “Let’s do this.”

And Dex… lets him.

Within a few minutes, it becomes readily apparent that Nursey did not think this through.

Because helping Dex shave his head means:  
A. Standing Very Close to Dex and

B. Touching Dex while Standing Very Close to Dex.

Neither of which he is adequately equipped for.

Because Dex is just as physically compelling as he’s always been, but now he’s also been _kind_ to Nursey several times since the Halloween party. Which, objectively, Nursey knows that brief moments of decency don’t negate three straight months of malice, but—

Dex sits on the counter, elbows on knees and eyes on Nursey. The bathroom is still humid from all of them using the showers an hour before.

“So,” Nursey says, and he’s definitely not stalling. “How do you usually do this? A 1 or 2?”

“I usually do 1/8 of an inch, but, whatever.”

“Right. 1/8 then,” he turns the razor in his hand, popping off the current guard, and unzips the case to find the correct one.

“I’m not—“ Dex licks his lips, rolls the bottom one between his teeth. “Do you think longer would be better?”

Nursey pauses.

“Um.”

One of Nursey’s favorite things to do in Telluride when he was a kid was to walk on the metal guard rails that hugged the mountain’s curves leading down from their house and into the city proper—arms out, the sun on his back, his balance the only thing between happiness and potential disaster.

He feels a little like that now. Like he has to be cautious or he may suddenly tip from exhilaration to catastrophe.

“I think,” Nursey says slowly, “that 1/4 would look good. Still really short, but long enough to hold a little more heat as it gets colder?”

“Okay,” Dex says, and the acquiescence feels a little like victory.

“Okay,” Nursey agrees.

He fits the 2 guard to the razor, scrolls through the settings, and then steps forward, between Dex’s splayed legs, pale and long and so damn freckled. His bare toes, curled a little, seem strangely noteworthy. More vulnerable, even, than the bowed curve of Dex’s neck as he offers Nursey the crown of his head. Dex’s skin is warm under his palm as Nursey steadies the side of his face.

“Okay,” Nursey says again, and then turns on the clippers and, starting at his left temple, makes the first slow pass.

It doesn’t take long.

Within a few minutes, Dex slides off the counter and turns so Nursey can finish the back of his head and even up his neckline.

Afterward, Nursey runs his palm, lightly, over his work, then does it again under the guise of brushing off wayward clipped hair. He does it a third time without excuse, but Dex lets him, unmoving, and it’s a little like petting the spring-felted antlers of a wild deer in velvet. A holy, quiet thing. A thing that is allowed, rather than taken.

He stops, thumb trailing down the nape of Dex’s neck to the bumps of his vertebra where neck meets shoulder, rubbing a little, like maybe he can feel the freckles there if he tries, and then makes himself take a step back.

“Done,” he says, too loud.

Dex straightens, leaning forward to consider his reflection in the mirror, and runs his own hands over the crown of his skull, pulling the tips of his ears down to check his temples, fingers resting, maybe a little distractedly, at the nape of his neck.

“Looks good,” he says.

He doesn’t meet Nursey’s eyes as he takes the razor from him, as he cleans the guard and packs everything back into the little case. And Nursey doesn’t know why he just stands there, watching, why he doesn’t leave, job completed, except that he feels like he can’t.

“So. I need to shower again,” Dex says, gesturing to his shoulders, covered in a dusting of clipped hair.

“Right,” Nursey says. "I'll just." He turns to open the door. "Um. See you later."

“Goodnight,” Dex says behind him, stilted and nearly inaudible.

It’s not a thank you.

But it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: 
> 
> Due to a series of unfortunate events, I can't move to the place I was planning to move, and with the end of my lease looming in 8 DAYS I spent yesterday frantically finding a new place, applying for it, being accepted, and now I'm trying to get all the necessary insurance and utilities and etc. set up. It's also, conveniently, the first week of school. ._. However, my students seem to be a pretty kick-ass group and I've managed to more or less stay on top of my reading for quals. And, hey, I have a place to live next week, which is the most important thing. I hope you're all having a lovely day and thank you so much for all the comments! I'll try to get around to answering more of them once I've got this whole IRL apartment fiasco sorted.


	6. Chapter 6

Dex probably shouldn’t have let Nursey cut his hair.

It was stupid.

Because Ransom’s razor was definitely needlessly fancy but it wasn’t exactly complicated. And Dex.

Dex had maybe enjoyed it a little too much: Nursey touching him.

Dex is still getting used to touching in general. And he thinks he might not ever get used to how _much_ the Samwell boys touch each other on a regular basis. Not even in a hockey-celly, back-slapping way. But in a hugs-for-no-reason way. A piggy-back-ride to the cafeteria kind of way. A shoulders-pressed-together-on-the-couch way. A falling-asleep-on-each-others-beds way.

He’d thought, before, that physical affection was something people grew out of. Something for small children and happy couples. He’s starting to realize he was wrong.

And he _wants_ to be touched. He thinks he might even deserve it. But trying to reevaluate the various ways that his past has fucked up his understanding of interpersonal relationships is hard. Does he like Derek Malik Nurse’s hand on his neck because it’s Derek Malik Nurse’s hand? Or because it’s a modicum of physical kindness?

He handles this confusion, like any well-adjusted teenager, by avoiding Nurse entirely. Which also helps with the whole ‘not being a dick to Nurse anymore’ plan.

Problem solved.

Until his lawyer calls unexpectedly two days later, before Nurse has probably even realized Dex is avoiding him, and ruins everything.

After Dex hangs up with Elle, he seeks out Bitty in the Haus common room and stands awkwardly in the stairwell for several minutes trying to psych himself up.

“Hey,” he says finally, adept, as always, at gracefully starting a conversation.

Bitty pats the couch next to him.

“Hey there. You alright?”

Dex sits.

“Um. I have kind of a weird favor to ask, actually.”

“Okay,” Bitty says slowly.

“Can I borrow some things from your room tomorrow? Just for the afternoon. I’ll give them back after dinner.”

“Things from my room,” Bitty repeats. “What things?”

And this is the hard part.

“I just. Have someone visiting from home. And I want my room to look”—habitable—“nice.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, even more slowly. “Well. I’m going to assume you don’t want my Beyoncé poster.”

“No.”

Dex swallows.

“Like. Your sheets and duvet? And maybe your lamp?”

Bitty blinks at him.

“Well, sure. But what’s wrong with your sheets?”

Besides the fact that he doesn’t have any?

“What about Dex’s sheets?” Nurse asks, coming through the front door with perfectly reliable terrible timing.

He throws himself onto the couch next to Dex, feet pushing into the meat of his thigh, groaning something about the audacity of French philosophers.

Fuck.

“Actually, Dex,” Bitty says, stupidly kind and completely unaware that he’s ruining everything, “if you want to impress someone, Nursey has much nicer stuff than I do.”

“I do,” Nurse agrees, like an asshole. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Dex is trying to impress someone?” Shitty asks, coming down the stairs with Jack and Chowder. 

Jack and Chowder are both in boxers and T-shirts while Shitty, his hair wrapped up in a towel, is wearing a very small pair of neon green briefs with ducks on them and nothing else. Unfortunately, this sort of occurrence is becoming less and less shocking.

“Apparently,” Nurse says, “he’s trying to steal Bitty’s sheets for whoever it is, so.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Damn, Poindexter. Who is she?” Shitty asks.

“No one. I don’t have some girl coming over.”

But it’s too late, because they’re off, speculating, and Shitty is hypothesizing that Dex would only want to impress someone if she herself was very impressive—a 6 foot tall viking queen? A small but terrifying Irish woman?

Jack suggests booking the rink after hours to show off his skills and Chowder is saying, “I bet she’s nice! Can we meet her? When will she be here?”

And Dex just.

Loses it for a minute.

“She’s my fucking _lawyer,_ okay?” he says, shoving Nurse’s feet away from his thigh as he stands.

“And no, you can’t meet her. Look, just. Nevermind.”

And now he’s standing and they’re all looking at him in confusion and the fact that at some point he’s now going to have to explain _why_ he has a lawyer and why she’s coming to visit him is—

This is why he tries not to talk too much.

“Why won’t you all just leave me the fuck alone?” he snaps.

And goes upstairs with as much dignity as he can being that’s he’s essentially just thrown a tantrum because his maybe-friends _care_ about him.

He is a disaster.

He’s laying on his stupid naked mattress, staring at the ceiling and regretting his life choices, when someone knocks on the door.

He’s expecting Bitty, when he opens it.

But it’s not.

It’s Nurse.

“Really? They thought _you_ were the best choice?”

“Well,” Nurse says, pushing past him into the room. “I’m used to you yelling at me anyway, so.”

And that hurts.

It’s true, though. Which is maybe why.

“Right,” he says.

Nurse sits and then nods to the space next to him like Dex needs an invitation to sit on his own bed.

He does anyway.

“I have to point out that was a dick move,” Nurse says.

“I know,” Dex mutters. “Sorry.”

Nurse looks delighted.

“But we didn’t know it was a personal thing, so. We’re sorry too. Bitty said he’ll leave his key under your door in the morning and you can take anything you want from his room. But, um. You can also use any of my stuff that you want. I could even move some things over in the morning for you since I have a free period before lunch. Do you—when is she coming?"

“Three-thirty,” Dex says. “And that— my last class gets out at three so that would be…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But none of your floral shit. Or fairy lights. Or any of that girly stuff, okay?”

Nurse inhales, a crease between his stupidly perfect, carefully sculpted, eyebrows, and Dex stares at him, daring him to start up a new lecture about gender roles or some shit because Dex _knows_ —or at least he’s starting to, that the way he views some things is fucked up, but he can’t deal with that right now, not on top of all of this— except then Nurse just exhales, closing his eyes for a minute like Dex physically pains him.

“Okay,” he says. “I can do that.”

“Okay.”

It’s uncomfortably silent for a minute.

“So,” Nurse says, attention on his hands. “Can I ask about the uh, _reason,_ you have a lawyer coming? And why she needs to see your room?”

“Will you tell the others?”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“No,” Dex says. “I mean, I don’t want to have to tell them. So if I tell you can you go make sure they know but I never have to talk about it again?”

“Oh. Yeah, I can definitely do that.”

“Okay, well.”

Dex stalls out, uncertain where to start or how much to say.

Nurse shifts, bumps Dex’s shoulder with his own, and then keeps the point of contact between them.

“This isn’t a heart to heart or some shit,” Dex clarifies. “Just me giving you information, okay?”

“Okay.” Nurse agrees, but he doesn’t move away.

Dex takes a breath.

“I’m in the process of petitioning for legal emancipation. My court date is next month. My lawyer has submitted documentation that says I have a full scholarship that includes room and board, and that the scholarship will last until right before I turn 18 in June. But she wanted to come take pictures of my dorm to prove that I’m like. A functional human, or whatever. To include with my petition.”

Nurse glances around the room. The bare mattress. The bare walls. the bare shelves above his desk. The only signs of life in the room are the crushed pillow behind Dex’s back, the blue tartan throw blanket in the corner at the foot of the bed, the pink speaker, a short stack of library books, and a slightly taller stack of pucks wrapped in masking tape and badly labeled in sharpie—first goal, first hat-trick, first shootout win—on the window sill.

“Don’t say anything, asshole,” Dex says.

Nurse doesn’t say anything.

“She just called me today. I would have made it look like I was happy and comfortable and shit last weekend if I’d known.”

“You’ve been here for over two months,” Nurse points out.

“Yeah?”

“So, were you ever planning to like. Get stuff for you? Not because you have to _prove_ you’re happy and comfortable here but just. Because you _are_ happy and comfortable here?”

Dex is exhausted, so he answers truthfully.

 “I am. I’m so—you have no idea how happy I am here. But I haven’t been able to work as much as I’d planned. And I spent nearly all the money I made over the summer on new skates last month. I got the pillow and blanket from the Goodwill in town but that was the most I could fit in my backpack and I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford spring semester fees next year, much less better equipment. So sheets and posters are pretty far down the list of things I need to worry about right now.”

“Oh.”

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds and Dex doesn’t look at him.

“You’re working?”

“Yeah. Garage in town. Changing oil and shit. I pick up hours whenever he needs help but with practices and games and homework—“

“So that’s where you go on weekends when we’re not traveling?”

“Yeah.”

He goes quiet again for a moment, frowning a little.

“So the group chat thing. That was. You weren’t bullshitting. You really didn’t have the money to pay for all the stuff we were texting you?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s the reason you don’t ever go out with us. Because you're at work. Or can’t afford it.”

“Yeah.”

“And why you won’t use headphones. Because you don’t have the money to buy any.”

“ _Yes_ , Nurse.”

“So you don’t actually hate _me_ ,” Nurse says, like it’s a revelation. “You’re just poor. Like. Not Bitty-poor. _Really_ poor. And I keep rubbing your face in it.”

“Fuck you. But yeah. Mostly.”

“Well that’s bullshit.”

“I’m _sorry_?”

“No, I mean. You should have just said something. Do you know how much money I have? How much money Shitty and Jack and Rans and Holster and Chowder all have? Like. We cover Bitty almost all the time whenever we go out. Because we’re a team. And we’re _your_ team. You think we’re going to leave you behind at the arcade when some of us have trust funds so massive that they’ll get passed down to our own grandkids? That’s bullshit. Even if you have some sort of hangup about _me_ covering you, that’s—Shitty already has Bits on his Sprint family plan. If he knew you weren’t in the group chat because of _money_ he’d have added you too.”

“Oh.”

“And. We all have old equipment. Probably go through it faster than we should because we’re all entitled divas who would rather buy a whole new chest protector than fix a fraying strap. Well. Except Jack. But he’s weird about about his hockey stuff. I think he’s been using the same cup since freshman year.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“My point is, you don’t have to worry about that. Not with us. You need equipment or help with fees or whatever, we got you. And it’s not charity because it’s not a big deal for us. It doesn’t count unless it would be like, an imposition.”

Dex opens his mouth to protest but he doesn’t get the chance because Nurse just keeps talking.

“ And if you _do_ want to keep track and pay us back some day with your stupid huge NHL salary then that’s fine too but like. I could buy you a _car_ and my parents probably wouldn’t even ask about the charge, okay? A $100 health center fee is nothing. I have more than that in my wallet right now.”

And that kind of makes Dex want to punch him, but—

“Okay.”

They just sit there for a minute, leaning into each other.

“Hey, Nurse.”

“Yeah?”

“About what you said earlier. About me not hating you, just being poor?”

“Yeah?”

“I do hate you, I’m just poor too.”

He nudges him a little, just to make sure Nurse knows he’s joking.

Nurse laughs, soft, more exhalation than sound.

“You don’t hate me,” he says. He sounds confident.

“I do,” Dex protests.

“You don’t. It’s okay.”

Dex thinks it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I'm moving tomorrow! Everything is packed and ready to go and I have the whole long weekend to get settled. I'm aiming to be completely unpacked/decorated within a week. We'll see if that happens. Consult Tumblr for what is sure to be a lot of progress pics if you're into that sort of thing.


	7. Chapter 7

Nursey maybe goes a little overboard with the whole “make Dex’s room look habitable” thing.

Maybe.

But it’s not like any of the guys dissuaded him when he asked them for help, though, so. They’re definitely complicit.

He and Bitty make a Pinterest board over breakfast.

Shitty makes a trip to Kinko’s during his free period while Nurse is at his 10am class, and by the time it’s 11am a whole stack of donated items from various guys has accumulated in the hallway outside of Dex’s dorm.

Bitty, only a few paces behind Nursey on the stairs, bursts out laughing when he rounds the corner.  
Apparently Bitty had shown up for his study hall period with a tupperware of apple fritters, sweet-talked the teacher for three minutes, and then got a free pass to return to the Haus until after lunch.

Nursey needs to learn how to bake.

“He’s going to kill you,” Bitty says cheerfully, surveying the cascade of textiles, small pieces of furniture, and decorations.

Nursey, filling his arms with freshly laundered sheets, is too committed to back down now, though.

“You gunna help me or not?” he asks.

Bitty scoffs and whacks him gently with a curtain rod.

“Of course.”

They sort through things in silence for a few minutes as Nursey tries to work up his nerve to speak.

“So,” he says finally, “Can I ask you a few questions about, um,” he tries and fails to think of a better way to say ‘poor people,’… “poor people?” he finishes, grimacing.

“Well,” Bitty says,I’m not exactly poor, honey. Compared to you, sure. But my family is solidly middle-class. If you have questions about living in actual poverty—well, he’s not exactly forthcoming with personal information so I don't really know what his situation is like, but—Dex is probably who you should talk to.”

“No. Well, I mean, yeah, I’m starting to get that, now. But that’s why I have questions. Because I didn’t realize Dex was like—I think I’ve been fucking things up with him a little and I didn’t even realize it.”

“Oh, “Bitty says. “I see.”

What he sees, with an expression like _that_ , Nursey isn’t sure.

“You know,” Bitty says slowly. “Dex has a lot of—it hasn’t been your fault. The way you two are. I love that boy, but he still has a lot of growing to do.”

“Oh. I don’t—yeah. I know.” He appreciates hearing it from Bitty, though, who is arguably Dex’s closest friend at Samwell. “But I think I’ve accidentally made things worse sometimes. And he’s been. Trying. To better. I think. Talking to Shitty and Rans and stuff. So. I can try too.”

“Well,” Bitty says. “Alright. Speaking of, it might be good to get Shitty’s input.”

“Shitty? Shitty’s parents are almost as loaded as mine.”

“Yeah, but he put his foot _right in_ his mouth a good amount freshman and sophomore year with Lardo, if you remember. He might have some tips for you there. Mistakes he made. Arguments they had. Maybe even things in general about wooing someone when there’s such a huge difference between your income brackets.”

“Wooing,” Nursey repeats, a little strangled. “I’m not—I don’t want to _woo_ Dex.”

“Whatever you want to call it, honey. Now, what questions do you have?”

***

Five hours later, Nursey has let himself back into Dex’s room after class to vacuum the rug when several pairs of feet come clambering up the stairs. He turns off the vacuum, spooling up the cord, and rubs the back of his forearm over his sweaty face.

“Bro,” Holster says, leaning in the doorway. “It looks like HGTV up in here.”

“Sheeee-it,” Shitty agrees. “It sure damn does.”

Nursey glances around the room with something like dawning horror.

“It’s too much,” Nursey says. “Oh god, he really is going to kill me. Why did I think this was a good idea?”

“I think it’s great!” Chowder says, eternally optimistic. “I think he’s really going to like it.”

“Nah,” Shitty says. “He’s definitely going to kill you. It does look hella nice, though, brah. You should come do our room next.”

“Thanks.”

The guys head back downstairs, talking about food, and Nursey pushes the vacuum into the hall before returning to the doorway. Just standing there a minute. Trying to look at the space with new eyes.

Dex’s bed is made in dark grey sheets and a light grey duvet that had been Nursey’s back-up bed set. Blue tartan blanket folded at the bottom. Two pillows. The tapestry hung on the wall above it—of an ice rink—was donated from Jack, go figure. The pale grey curtains and black metal rod are also from Nursey, but the fluffy charcoal rug that stretches from the window nearly to the door is from Shitty, as is the wire trashcan with the little wooden basketball headboard and hoop attached to it. The bungie chair by the window is from Holster. The scuffed up blue steamer trunk with stickers all over it, beside the chair and generally taking up the awkward amount of empty space from removing the other bed and desk—is from Ransom.

He’s not sure who the dart board came from, but it’s hung up next to the door.

Between the bed and the desk is a mini fridge from Whisky and Tango’s room with a half-eaten loaf of bread and an assortment of peanut butter, Nutella, and protein bars scattered on top of it from Chowder.

Bitty’s utilitarian blue lamp is on the desk and next to it is a mason jar from the kitchen, filled with pens and highlighters. Above the desk, the first shelf holds Dex’s library books, a couple spiral notebooks, his speaker, and his Ipod. On the second shelf, though, Nursey has draped a strand of fairy lights—which, yeah, Nursey is definitely a dead man—but the lights illuminate all of Dex’s pucks (arranged with Lardo’s artistic eye via snapchat) so maybe he won’t be too pissed.

But the big thing, the best thing, in Nursey’s opinion, is the empty opposite wall.

Except it’s not empty anymore.

Thanks to Jack’s habit of always carrying around a camera and, subsequently, Shitty’s quick trip to Kinkos, the wall is now full of regimented rows of pictures.

Pictures of the rink. Of campus. Of the lake. The lake at sunset. And the team. Not any of their faces, but a pyramid of pucks stacked on the boards backgrounded by indistinct figures in Samwell red on the ice. A long stretch of night-darkened bus-seats, the silhouetted backs of heads wearing headphones and resting on neighbor’s shoulders. A pair of freckled, scarred, hands lacing new skates. Another set of hands—Nursey’s hands—taping a stick.

Jack had quietly suggested that he “might have some pictures they could use” and then gave Shitty a flash drive with nearly fifty beautiful photographs on it like it was no big deal. Shitty couldn't decide which ones to print so he’d printed all of them. And now they’re on the wall. Dex’s wall.

He doesn’t know how Dex is going to feel about that. But _his_ attention, at least, is sort of stuck on the two pictures, right next to each other, of their hands. The contrast is. Sort of compelling.

He also doesn’t know whether or not he was overstepping when he added some things to Dex’s closet.

His things.  
And maybe a few new things. Just a few.

Because he’d realized, when he went to hang up the hoodie draped over the back of Dex’s desk chair, that Dex owned very little in the way of clothes. There were five dry-cleaner hangers hung on the rod in the mostly-empty closet, only one of which was in use: a black t-shirt. There was a pair of jeans folded neatly, alone, on the top shelf. On the floor of the closet there were two amazon boxes with the flaps cut off. The first held a pair of samwell-crested athletic shorts and a SMH hockey raglan shirt. The second held a pair of socks and several pairs of black underwear. Next to the boxes was Dex’s checked converse and a small pile of what Nursey assumed was Dex’s laundry: A black tank top. A second pair of athletic shorts. Socks. Underwear.

Including the henley, jeans, boots, and leather jacket Dex was wearing that day, Dex’s meager closet offerings brought the grand total of clothing items he owned to like. Less than two dozen things.Which was probably about the number of things Nursey had in his _hamper_ right now.

Nursey had just assumed, until that point, that Dex had an aesthetic. That his closet was probably full of identical black t-shirts and torn jeans and maybe even several battered pairs of checkered converse and dark, thick-soled boots. It occurred to him, only then, that maybe Dex didn’t have an aesthetic. That maybe the few clothes he _did_ have looked so similar intentionally so people would make the same assumptions Nursey had.

Nursey didn’t mean to, really.

He’d been thinking about the fact that his closet was full of shit he didn’t wear—some of it brand new. And then he’d been arranging pucks. And then he’d been thinking about the fact that Dex was broad enough in the shoulders at least that Nursey’s shirts would probably almost fit him. And then he’d been carefully hanging pictures. And then Bitty left and Nursey was hastily shoving t-shirts and hangers from his own closet into his arms, furtively crossing the three feet of hall space between their doors, and then tucking two extra pairs of athletic shorts and two older SMH shirts—from sophomore year so they might actually fit Dex’s leaner frame _right_ —into the Amazon box on the floor. And then he was hanging up three more dark shirts, a black and white flannel, and a cable knit forest-green sweater that would probably still be a little big on Dex but look _really_ nice with his coloring.

Jeans, though. There was no way any of Nursey’s jeans would fit Dex.

So he may have left class early to go to Target and he may have called coach to get Dex’s measurements on the way and then he may have gone a little overboard and bought not only three new pairs of jeans but also some socks and boxers and two knit hats because it was getting really cold and Dex’s ears were constantly pink and—

Well. Now Dex’s closet looks a little more full and Nursey is standing in the doorway of his room, not even looking inside the closet but knowing what’s in it, wondering if he has time to pull everything back out again before Dex gets there because this is—this is probably overstepping. This and the fairy lights combined might ruin whatever tenuous maybe-friendship-like thing they have going on now.

But he doesn’t _want_ to take the clothes back. He wants Dex to _wear_ them.

Especially that green sweater.

And then he hears Dex’s voice downstairs.

Too late, now.

He closes and locks the door, shoves the vacuum inside his own room, and then casually descends the stairs.

Dex’s lawyer is nearly as tall as Dex. She’s wearing black slacks and a white blouse that shows off Michele Obama-level biceps and she’s holding a camera with the same sort of casual familiarity that Jack does. When Nursey reaches the bottom of the stairs, she’s eyeing their couch with distain and telling Dex he looks much more healthy than the last time she’d seem him but to please wear some _color_ when they’re in court for the love of god.

If Nursey was straight he might have immediately fallen in love with her.

“Hey, man,” Dex says, and that may be the most polite greeting Nursey has ever received from him.

“Hey, bro,” he holds out Dex’s key to him, like they’d planned. “Bitty said to give this to you.”

“Did he get the book he needed?”

“Think so.”

“This is Elle,” Dex says, pocketing it. “Elle, this is my teammate Derek Nurse.”

“Elle?” Nursey repeats, one eyebrow up. “Elle the lawyer?”

“Yes. And if you make a Legally Blonde reference no one will find your body.”

“Hey,” Nursey says. “Legally Blonde is the shit. It focuses on like, strong interpersonal female relationships instead of heterosexual romance and Elle doesn’t have to give up any of her feminine-coded personality traits in order to be successful. Like, yeah, it could use some diversity, but for 2001 it was pretty damn progressive.”

Elle blinks at him. “Well, shit.”

“What?”

“Now I’m actually going to have to watch the movie.”

“You’ve never seen _Legally Blonde_?”

“Even _I’ve_ seen Legally Blonde,” Dex says.

“Do not start with me,” Elle says.

She considers Nursey for a moment.

“So, Derek Nurse. You do…defensive things…with Dex, right?”

“Yes,” He agrees, trying very hard not to laugh. “Yes I do.”

“Are you hoping to play hockey professionally or collegiately as well?”

“Oh. No? Not professionally, anyway. I’ve uh, actually been turning down invitations from scouts and stuff. I might play in college, but I’m taking next year off because I was accepted into this writers workshop thing at Columbia? For poetry. It’s not a residence program, but starting in June I’ll get a monthly stipend for 8 months and have access to writing mentors all over the world by email and video chat. So. Hopefully I’ll have something publishable by the end of it and I can go from there.”

And he waits for the standard shock—the confusion over why he would choose to focus on something like poetry when he has clear physical talents and that could lead to a lucrative career—but she merely looks impressed.

“Wow,” Elle says. “Programs like that are very difficult to get into, I understand. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

He very carefully does not look at Dex, though he can see, from the corner of his eye, that Dex is staring at him.

“Speaking of,” he says, gesturing toward the door, “I need to go hit up my poetry instructor before her office hours end. It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

“Hey, Nurse,” Dex says. “Elle is going to drive me to work in a few minutes so she can take a statement from my boss. You mind picking me up after?”

Nursey is so shocked that Dex is asking him for a favor that it takes him a beat to answer.

“Yeah, for sure, bro. What time?”

“Eight-thirty? I can text you when I’m finishing up.”

“S’wasome.”

He fist-bumps Dex because it seems like the thing to do.

“Later,” he says, and escapes.

He waits, a little anxiously, to get a text from Dex that says he’s going to kill him, but receives nothing until a little past 8pm, and then it’s only an address.

Nursey assumes that means he should leave.

It’s raining when he gets there, a modest garage with three bays, a gated lot, and an attached office. Only one of the bays is open when he pulls up front. The light coming from inside spills gold over wet, stained, concrete, bright where it reflects on puddled water.

“Hey,” Dex calls, bent over a work bench as Nursey jogs inside, head ducked against the rain, “One minute.”

“No problem.”

Unlike Nursey, bundled up against the chill and the wet, Dex is wearing navy coveralls—the top unbuttoned, sleeves tied around his hips—and a black tank top.

It’s humid in the garage, the dry warmth from a space heater mixing with the moist, rain-heavy air from outside and Dex, when Nursey stops to stand next to him, smells like sweat and gasoline. Like salt. Like the damp soil of just-watered plants in the sun. Organic. Alive.

Dex is writing something in a well-worn ledger book on the work top, one hand braced beside it, the other carefully handling a tiny stub of a pencil. His fingers are streaked in blacks and browns; his nail beds are dark charcoal outlines.

Under the halogen lights, with the light sheen of sweat on his freckled skin, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, his bicep flexing as he writes in the ledger, Dex looks like he could be a Garin Baker blue-collar painting: a romanticized version of himself.

He closes the book, ducking into the office for a moment before stepping out again, hands empty, locking the door. He turns off the space heater and uses a rag slung over the corner of the work bench to scrub at his fingers.

“Let me change and lock up,” he says, attention still on his nails. And it’s strange, the way Dex is standing. Shoulders curved in. Like he’s trying to take up less space. No eye contact.

There’s a pink flush on his neck that Nurse had initially assumed was from exertion but—

Is Dex _embarrassed_?

“You look good,” Nursey says because _what the fuck his brain is the actual worst_.

Dex is startled enough to look up at him.

“What?”

Everything is terrible.

“You um. You look good. Like this. Like you know what you’re doing. Competent. Like you are on the ice.”

It’s not what he meant but it is true and he can’t say what he _actually_ meant, so.

“Oh,” Dex says.

And then he nods jerkily toward a set of lockers at the back of the garage and walks away.

_Perfect._ He thinks. _A+ work, Nurse._

Dex leaves his coveralls and work boots in a locker, pulls on his henley and leather jacket and laces up his own shoes while Nurse watches awkwardly from several feet away. By the time Dex has pulled the bay door down and locked it, the light rain has become a deluge.

When they get into Nursey’s car, they’re soaked.

“Fuck,” Dex says, “I should have grabbed some towels for your seats—do you want me to—“

“They’re leather. And I just conditioned them last week. It’s fine. We can wipe them down when we get back. I’ve got stuff in the trunk.”

“Okay.”

The drive home is quiet and dark, the blur of trees outside as lulling as the soft, rapid, movement of the windshield wipers.

There’s something—a feeling like promise, maybe, like inevitability, in the darkness. They aren’t touching, several inches between Nursey’s hand on the gear shift and Dex’s stained fingers, picking at a tear in the knee of his jeans, but Nursey can smell him. Feel the heat of him. The preternatural awareness he has of Dex on the ice seems to have followed them into the small cab of the Porsche.

Dex doesn’t say anything for the duration of the drive and Nursey doesn’t either. Their silent pocket of warmth seems too intimate to disturb with words.

Back at the dorm parking garage, they each take a microfiber towel from the trunk and spray the seats down with interior cleaner, working with the same parallel precision that they often do on the ice, which is a sort of talking, in it’s own way, and one that doesn’t lead to arguments.

They’re already soaked through so they don’t bother running to the Haus, just duck their heads and cram their hands in their pockets and let the cold—nearly cold enough for sleet—rain hit the backs of their necks. Nursey, at least, has a hood.

At the Haus, Dex is immediately pulled upstairs by a tutting Bitty who promises to take care of his leather jacket, _don’t waste time on that now just get in the shower before you catch your death, honestly,_ and Nursey, admittedly more prepared for the weather, pulls off his jacket in the kitchen, rubs a hand towel over his face, and leans back against the counter for a moment, feeling unsettled.

Jack comes to stand beside him.

“Hey,” he says.

The team sometimes jokes that Jack is the “dad” and Bitty is the “mom,” but it doesn’t feel so much like a joke now, the way Jack is looking at him.

“Everything okay?” he asks, nudging their shoulders together.

Objectively, yes.

Everything is fine. More than fine. Dex and Nursey are coexisting. They managed to spend twenty minutes alone together without arguing and even when they do argue these days it’s not really _arguing_. That’s good. That might qualify as “great,” even.

But not-so-objectively, Nursey has no idea.

He takes a page out of Dex’s book and shrugs.

Bitty probably wouldn’t be satisfied with that, but Jack nods.

“You going to shower?”

Nursey swallows. He thinks about Dex already in the shower, probably alone, upstairs.

“I think I’ll wait,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter per Tumblr request. I hope your day looks up, friend.
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> My grandfather passed away this evening so I'll be headed to Alabama tomorrow for the funeral. It will be good to see all my family, despite the circumstances, and I conveniently have a whole stack of audio books for listening to while unpacking that I can now bring with me to make the long drive a little more bearable. I also have a Very Interesting IRL university anecdote to share, but I'm waiting until next week to see if it ends up on the news or not so I can decide how much detail to give. And after that vague assertion, I'll bid you goodnight.


	8. Chapter 8

When Dex brings Elle up to his room, he isn’t sure what to expect when he opens the door to his dorm but it’s not… this.

It looks like something out of a catalogue. Or a TV show. Still minimal and clean in grays and blacks and blues, but in an intentional way.

“Wow,” Elle says beside him, rocking back on her heels. “This is not what I expected.”

“The guys helped me,” Dex says, because it’s true and he can’t really think of anything else to say in the face of—this.

“It’s… _really_ nice,” she says. “Like. Damn. I was preparing myself for teenage boy entropy. I didn’t even want to hold out hope for a made bed. But you went full pottery-barn in here. It’s nicer than my college dorm.”

Dex doesn’t say anything.

He’s too occupied staring at the wall of photographs and trying not to look like he’s staring at the wall of photographs. Because ostensibly he looks at this wall every day. And should not be feeling weird feeling-y things about it. He looks away because the back of his throat starts to feel a little too hot and tight for comfort.

His team cares about him.

Derek Malik Nurse, despite everything, cares about him.

Cares enough to do all of this.

And yes, Nurse _had_ included a string of fairy lights, despite Dex’s edict against them, but they’re snaked around the shelf over his desk, now displaying his pucks, and illuminating the whole little study nook with soft, sepia, light, so he can’t really be mad about it.

Elle shoos him into the hall so she can take pictures.

Dex pulls out his phone, opens a new message to Nurse, and then just stands there, thumbs poised over the screen, stymied.

Does he say _thank you_?

Does he pretend to be mad about the fairy lights?

He should say _something_.

He should say _thank you,_ is what he should do. He should fucking apologize too.

Why is that so hard?

He shifts from foot to foot, uncertain, for so long that Elle finishes her pictures.

He pockets his phone again, no message sent, manages to sneak his key to Bitty while he distracts her with pie, and then pulls his phone back out, still just as lost, as they walk to the visitor’s parking lot.

“You’re really happy here,” she says, “aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m—yeah.”

“Good.”

***

Working clears his head.

By 8pm he’s detailed three cars and sweated through helping Benny finish the rebuild of an engine, and then, after Benny leaves him to clean and lock up, he loses himself to the steady rhythm of the push broom, to putting away the tools scattered on various surfaces, to rolling up air hoses and turning off compressors. By the time he’s nearly finished, updating the ledger from the office, the world seems nice and orderly.

And then Nurse arrives to drive him home and fucks everything up again.

Nurse is wearing tight dark jeans and floral Doc Martens. A green, fur-lined—faux fur, knowing Nurse—anorak and some sort of chunky cable-knit cream-colored sweater underneath it that makes him look soft and touchable.

Like something to be held.

Dex realizes, just as quickly, how very much _he_ does not look like that.

He curls his stained fingers a little tighter around the pencil in his hand and carefully redirects his gaze. He has a brief moment of thankfulness that at least the shirt he’s wearing is black so it’s not readily apparent exactly how smeared with oil he is which is followed by fierce fury at himself for caring. He’s dirty because he has a job. Because he’s _good_ at his job. And there’s nothing shameful about that.

Except then Nurse says he looks good.

_Good._

Like maybe Nurse didn’t even mean to say it, but like he’s serious all the same, like he means it. And Dex can’t seem to focus on anything else for the duration of the drive home. As they’re wiping down Nurse’s leather seats. As he’s stumbling up the stairs, teeth nearly chattering. As he’s scrubbing his nails in the shower and trying to decide if he’s disappointed that Nurse didn’t follow him.

_You look good_ , Nurse had said. Eyes dark and liquid and earnest.

_You look good._

When he makes it back to his room, towel around his waist, wet clothes bundled under one arm, he feels along the top molding, locates the key, and opens the door expecting the riches of its previous state to be gone—shuttled back to their respective owners once Elle had the pictures she needed.

But it’s not empty, as expected.

The chair and the trunk and the refrigerator and snacks are gone, but in their place is a squashy tartan chair, clearly stolen from the rarely-used upstairs lounge, draped with a blanket and holding a box full of unopened jars of peanut butter and Nutella. A whole case of protein powder. Beef jerky.

The pictures are all still there. The rug and the lamp and the wall hanging. The fairy lights and the pens and highlighters on the desk.

And Dex—

Dex is okay with it.

He realizes that his team cares about him and this is the way they’ve chosen to show it and he can appreciate that. He can accept the kindness.

He’ll have to thank them, tomorrow, though. With words.

What he _can’t_ accept is the fact that his bed is still fully made with butter-soft sheets, _two_ pillows, and a thick quilt, not to mention the blackout curtains—all things he recognizes as Nurse’s.

It’s a hugely disproportionate donation compared to everything else, which makes his stomach hurt considering that he’s been disproportionately cruel to Nurse.

And then Dex opens his closet to get some clothes because obviously he’s going to need to talk to Nurse and he can’t do that naked, and pauses again.

He’s touching the green sweater before he really even processes the fact that his closet is full of clothes. It’s soft. Softer than anything he’s ever owned and he’s temped to pull it off the hanger and over his head so he can feel that softness everywhere.

Except it’s not his sweater.

And those aren’t his jeans.

And the shirts—

He carefully releases the sleeve of the sweater and pulls on a pair of shorts that he knows are his and goes to sit at his desk and do some homework and wait.

Thirty minutes later, ten minutes after he’d heard Nurse greet Chowder next door, he steps into the hall and knocks on Nurse’s door.

“Hey,” he says. “You need to come take your shit back.”

Nurse, in a hoodie and boxers, rumpled and warm-looking, slides off his headphones.

“What?”

“Your stuff,” Dex repeats. “You need to take it back.”

Nurse follows him back to his room and waits until the door is closed before saying, “I don’t want it back.”

“Nurse,” Dex sighs.

“The quilt isn’t my color—it hella washes out my skin. Can’t take any good shirtless insta pics with that backdrop. And the sheets are the worst. Accidentally ordered 200 thread count instead of 400. I was going to throw them out anyway. If you don’t want to keep them just toss them in the dumpster.”

“Uh huh. And the pillow?”

“Too lumpy. Hurts my neck.”

“The fairy lights?”

“Too bright.”

“The _curtains_?”  
Nurse has to think for a minute.

“Smelly,” he decides finally.

He’s lying and Dex lets him.

He’s not sure why.

“Hey,” Nurse says, and then—

Nurse is touching him.

Two fingers, pressed to the hot skin of his upper right arm

“Are you sunburned?” he asks, baffled.

“Oh,” Dex says. “Yes?”

“How are you _sunburned_? It’s November.”

Dex stands very still, overly aware of Nurses’ hand, now fully cupping the ball of his shoulder.

“I detailed some cars outside when I first got to work before it started raining. Took off my shirt when I got hot. It was only for an hour but I burn fast, so.”

“The high was like, forty-five today.”

“I’m from Maine,” Dex says. “And I was _working_.”

Nurse rolls his eyes.

“Do you not have sunscreen?”

Dex would shrug, but that might dislodge Nurse’s hand.

He doesn’t want that.

“Sunscreen doesn’t really work on me. I just burn. Regardless. So.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t—what kind do you use?”

_Whatever was on sale,_ he thinks, _right up until my mother left and then no one cared._

“Dunno,” he says.

“Well you’re probably not using the right kind. Or maybe—I read this article the other day about how a bunch of brands aren’t actually the SPF they say they are. I could find it and, uh. Let you know? What kind you should be using?”

“Why?” Dex says.

“Because…sunburns aren’t healthy?” Nurse seems confused by the question. “It can lead to skin cancer. And like, wrinkles and stuff too. And your skin is so nice. You should—I mean. I would want to take care of it. If it was me.”

_You look good._ Nurse said.

_Your skin is so nice._ Nurse said.

“Oh,” Dex says.

Nurse’s hand is still on his shoulder.

Nurse seems to realize this.

He takes a step back.

“Anyway. I’ll go find that article for you.”

Dex clears his throat.

“What about the clothes, Nurse?”

Nurse goes very still. Like maybe if he doesn’t move Dex might forget the question.

“Clothes?” Nurse repeats.

If there had been any doubt previously about who was responsible for the state of Dex’s closet, there certainly isn’t any now.

Dex nods toward the open closet door. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice all the shirts and sweaters and three new pairs of jeans with the tags still on them?” he asks.

“Dammit,” Nurse says, “I forgot about the tags.”

“Take them back to wherever you got them.”

“I can’t,” Nurse says stubbornly.

“Yes you can. As we’ve already established, the tags are still on them.”

There’s a short, heavy, moment of silence, Nurse frowning at Dex and Dex frowning at Nurse.

Dex realizes what Nurse is about to do a split second before he lunges into the closet, taking out the whole tension rod in his haste, and starts furiously sorting through the cascade of clothes around him, tearing off tags.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Dex yells, “why are you like this?” and tackles him.

Nurse is triumphant in his task by the time that Dex, trying very hard not to laugh, manages to pin him down, hands around his wrists, thighs clamped around his waist, both of them breathing hard, surrounded by the victims of their battle.

“Uh, guys?” Chowder says from the hall, hesitant through the half-open door, “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Nurse says cavalierly from the floor, a sock draped over one eye.

“Fine,” Dex agrees.

“Ohhhkay,” Chowder says, and slowly lets the door slide closed again.

They both start laughing, then. The kind of laughing that’s hard to stop. The kind that goes on until it hurts and then keeps going. But it hurts in a good way. Dex slides off Nursey to lay next to him, breathless, ribs aching, trying to remember the last time he felt this happy.

He can’t.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” he says quietly, once their laughter has petered out to occasional little hitches of breath. He says it to the particle board ceiling, lit in long, wavy, shadows by the fairy lights above the desk. Both ordinary and ethereal.

“It was pretty shitty,” Nurse says. “I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.”

“Nothing,” Dex says, even quieter. “Nothing on purpose. Just dumb shit. Rich kid shit. But all the guys do the same stuff. You were just an easy target because you were the first person I met. And not my captain. And. I was a little racist, maybe. Still am. But I’m trying not to be. I shouldn’t have—”

He swallows, so much honestly all at once making his throat feel tight.

“I shouldn’t have. Before. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Also I’m sorry if I ever made you feel shitty about money stuff.”

Dex nods because he’s just about out of words.

The backs of their arms are touching.

“Here,” Nurse says finally, “Let me help clean this up. We should go to bed.”

They put the closet to rights again, elbows bumping, the silence companionable, and then Nurse slips out the door with a nod and a lingering sort of look that Dex can’t interpret and Dex goes to brush his teeth.

He realizes he’s smiling when he sees his reflection in the mirror.

When Dex goes to sleep that night, he strips down to his underwear and then pauses, standing in the door of his closet, fingers inexorably drawn again to the soft cable-knit fabric of the green sweater, a little wrinkled now from its involvement in the previous ordeal. He pulls it on before he can think too much about it.

Aside from the sweater, the sheets are the softest thing he’s ever felt and he doesn’t know anything about thread count, but he finds it hard to believe that something _better_ than this exists. He just revels in all the softness for a few minutes, shifting his legs back and forth, rubbing his cheek against the pillowcase.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he reaches up one hand and knocks his knuckles against the wall. Two times.

_Thank you_ , he thinks.

After a period of quiet:

He gets two knocks back.

He goes to sleep more comfortable than he’s ever been in his life, trying not to think about the fact that the quilt around his shoulders smells like Derek Malik Nurse.

And he _likes_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Thanks to everyone here and on Tumblr who left sweet messages/condolences. My short visit to the farm/the funeral were very nice, all things considered. I am pretty buried in work trying to catch up with teaching/exams/unpacking so it's unlikely I'll have time to respond to comments any time soon, but I very much appreciate them. Thank you. Hopefully life will settle down a bit by next week. See you then!


	9. Chapter 9

William Poindexter watches _The Deadliest Catch_ like it’s a spectator sport.

If he’s in the common room in the evening and he’s yelling at the TV, it’s usually over the Discovery Channel, not hockey.

He has favorite crew members and gets all bitchy about incompetence and he croons over machinery with an adoration that most people reserve for small animals and infants.

It’s adorable, is the point.

Nursey very carefully does not mention how adorable he finds it to anyone ever, but he does download several episodes to his laptop for their next roadie and asks if Dex wants to watch them together on the bus.

Dex, after several seconds of baffled silence, agrees.

Nursey decided, after the whole dorm room thing, that he was going to start being _nice_ to William Poindexter. Aggressively nice. Just to see what happened. He leaves a bottle of 50 SPF outside Dex’s room. He saves the last pudding cup for him at lunch. He offers to drive him to and from work once the first snow hits Samwell. They don’t talk about these nice things and they still bicker constantly, but there’s no longer a malicious edge to it, like before. They smile, sometimes, when they’re growling at each other on the bench. Sometimes they yell nice things now, too.

Being nice to William Poindexter is strange, mostly because William Poindexter is not nice at all, except.

Except maybe he is.

He’d changed, after the Halloween party, or even after the cop. But once Nursey starts being obviously, intentionally, nice, it’s like Dex decides it’s a competition. Dex starts sitting next to him in their shared classes. Walking with him to lunch after third period. Saving him a seat by the window during their Friday study hall. He brings Nursey succulent cuttings and little chipped pots from the garden store next to the garage— _they were free, it’s not like it’s a big deal_ —and sometimes, when Dex has been doing his homework in the kitchen, keeping Bitty company while he bakes, he’ll bring up a few cookies or a slice of pie to Nursey. He won’t say anything. Just. Knock on the door. Push it into his hands. And then disappear again.

Over Thanksgiving break, when he and Dex were some of the few people who stayed on campus, Dex had helped him cook an anti-Thanksgiving dinner of fish and chips and then they’d eaten it together in the common room and split a pie between them for dessert—lemon, because pumpkin would have been giving in to the consumerist man—and Dex had let Nursey rant about what a dick Christopher Columbus was for like twenty minutes on the roof afterward, wrapped in blankets and leaning into each other as it started to lightly snow.

There’s also the knocking.

The first night, after Elle’s visit, Dex had knocked twice on the wall between their rooms—quiet enough that Nursey wasn’t sure, at first, if it was intentional. Sitting in bed, suddenly very aware that Dex was laying less than a foot away from him, Nursey knocked back. And then he’d forgotten about it until the following night when, shortly after he heard Dex return from the bathroom for his evening teeth-brushing, the two quiet knocks happened again. And he’d knocked back again.

It’s a thing, now.

Every night.

The knocking.

What’s also a thing is Dex trying, and sometimes failing, to understand the nuances of race and privilege or even how to have a _conversation about_ understanding the nuances race and privilege, while Nursey is trying to understand what it’s like to be a teenager with no monetary parental support and a history of poverty—the extent of which he still doesn’t really understand. And on most days that’s good enough to maintain their strange dynamic of happy antagonism that might even be friendship, now. The others continue to look at them weird, but the looks are more endeared than concerned these days.

The week of finals, most of the team and Lardo are crammed onto the common room couch, celebrating the fact that they’re all done, or nearly done, with exams. They’re watching the original Rudolf on TV, drinking hot chocolate, when Bitty shoves his way inside the foyer, shedding several layers of clothing and kicking off his snow boots.

“I have had the _strangest_ day,” Bitty says, moving into the kitchen to unload the grocery bag he’s holding.

“Why’s that?” Jack asks.

“You would not _believe_ the number of girls I’ve had try to talk to me today.  
I was given numbers by _four different people_ who I’ve had classes with for three years who have never once spoken to me unless it was for an assignment. _Stacy Morrison_ just cornered me at the Murder Stop and Shop to try and get me to go out with her this weekend.”

“Did you say no?” Jack asks. He seems to be holding his mug a little more tightly.

“Obviously.”

“Don’t they know you’re gay?” Nursey asks.

“Well apparently _not_.”

He comes back into the common room, cheeks flushed with cold, and burrows between Jack and Shitty on the couch.

“I have absolutely no idea what’s happening.”

Nursey notices that Dex, on the other side of Jack, is very quiet and very red.

Shitty does too.

“Dex?” Shitty says. “You have something enlightening to add to the conversation?”

“Um,” Dex says.

So that’s a yes.

Chowder pauses the TV.

“It might be my fault,” Dex says.

Bitty scoffs. “How, exactly, is my sudden popularity with the ladies your fault?”

Dex glances at Nursey, then Ransom, and goes a little more red.

Everyone continues to stare at him.

“They were talking about Nursey’s dick!” Dex says, well, yells, really. Blurts out.

_Uh._ Nursey thinks. _What?_

“Uh,” Bitty says. “What?”

“ _Who_?” Chowder asks.

“When?” Ransom asks.

“How?” Shitty continues. “Why? To what extent?”

Jack slaps the back of Shitty’s head.

“I was at the tutoring center this morning,” Dex says, “And the front window looks at lake quad. And you guys—“ he gestures to Nursey, Rans, Jack, and Holster, “were running around the lake and there were these _fucking girls—_ ”

“Which ones?” Lardo asks.

“Blonde?” he says. “Well. I think one of them was a brunette.”

“Helpful,” Lardo says.

“Go on,” Bitty coaxes.

“They were at the window. Talking about the hockey team. And who they’d want to date. Or, uh—“

“Bang,” Shitty supplies.

“And a few of them were fine, they were actually saying nice shit about like, how Holster is smart and hardworking and Chowder is sweet and probably treats the person he’s dating like a queen.”

“True,” Chowder agrees.

“But then one of them was like”—he stalls out, glancing between Nursey and Ransom again and—

_Oh_ , Nursey thinks. _Of course._

“I’m guessing she said something about black dudes having big dicks?” Ransom says helpfully.

Dex exhales. “Yeah. But. Also some other things? Like, pretty fucking racist stuff. And the other girls didn’t even call her on it? And then two of them were trying to decide who they thought was—“

It’s weird, seeing Dex, who has no problem with profanity, get tripped up talking about sex.

“More endowed?” Lardo suggests.

“Yeah. And they figured it was Nursey.”

“Wait, what?” Ransom says. “ _Why_?”

Dex ignores him. “And I was so pissed that I went over and just. Told them that Bitty obviously has the biggest dick.”

Bitty chokes on his hot chocolate. Or Jack’s hot chocolate, which he has stolen.

“You did not,” Bitty says.

“I did. I’m sorry. But I was _so mad_ and I didn’t—I’m not like Shitty with a damn file of memorized elegant speeches to give when people are saying fucked up shit. I improvised.”

“I still want to know why they thought Nursey had a bigger dick than me,” Ransom says, mullish.

“Does he?” Lardo asks.

“Yes,” Nursey says.

“No,” Ransom says.

“I cannot believe,” Bitty says faintly, handing Jack back his mug, “that this is going to be my legacy. And it’s not even _true_. My dick is entirely average. Maybe even below average. Which was something I wasn’t even worried about until now that the entire school apparently thinks I have some sort of monster cock. _Oh my god_.”

“Your dick is perfect,” Jack says and all the little side conversations in the room come to a screeching halt.

Jack’s eyes go wide.

“I meant. Not—I just mean it’s… proportional?”

“There’s no way to recover from that, Jack,” Lardo points out gently.

The redness on Bitty’s face quickly surpasses the redness on Dex’s.

Chowder clears his throat and Bitty throws him a grateful look.

“If you were _really_ trying to fight racist stereotypes,” Chowder says to Dex, “you should have told them it was me. _And_ it also would have been the truth.”

“It would not,” Holster says.

“Would too.”

“It’s not like we’ve ever actually measured,” Nursey feels it’s necessary to point out.

“We could,” Shitty says.

“No,” Jack says.

“How do you even determine the parameters for that?” Lardo asks. “Like. What’s the standard? Is it by length? Circumference? Flacid? Erect?”

“Better do all of them,” Shitty says.

“No,” Jack says again.

“Mama was right,” Bitty says, face in his hands, “yankee schools are full of heathens.”

***

The following day is Nursey, Dex, and Jack’s Political Science exam. Nearly all the other guys had finished the semester the day before and are packing up to go home as the three of them leave the Haus. The campus in general seems quieter—both because of a new heavy blanket of over-night snow, but also because the tracks through that snow are much more sparse.

“Just think,” Nurse says, as they enter the classroom, shedding their coats, “In two hours, we’ll be free for an entire, glorious, week. And then it’s just hockey for two weeks after that.”

Jack makes an affirmative noise and goes to find his normal seat on the far side of the room. Dex and Nursey retreat to theirs, where Chad, despite looking exhausted, maintains his usual cruel smile.

“Morning, Trailer Trash,” Chad greets them quietly, “Affirmative Action.”

The girl next to Chad gives him a disgusted look, but doesn’t say anything.

Nursey and Dex ignore him.

The first time Dex had ever sat next to him in the class, Nursey had to grab his arm and pull him back down into his seat when Chad greeted Nursey in his customary manner.

“The fuck is your problem,” Dex had said, knuckles pushed white against the skin of his hands.

“Oh,” Chad said to Nursey, “how cute. You’ve found yourself a pet.”

And then Nursey had admittedly struggled to keep Dex from launching himself over the back of his chair.

“What the fuck,” Dex had said, red and furious as Nurse forced him into his seat. “Why do you let him to talk to you like that? He’s like half your size. Punch his stupid fucking face in.”

“Because,” Nursey had said tiredly, “First, his dad is on the school board and second, his dad and my dad are sort of friends. Or like the business equivalent of friends, anyway. I’m not going to make a complaint and be the reason their business partnership falls apart. Third, I’m pretty sure if I hit someone I would be expelled. Violence is never the answer.”

“Right,” Dex snarled, “but sometimes violence is the question and the answer is _yes_.”

“That was almost poetic,” Nursey said, his hand still wrapped, restraining, around Dex’s elbow. “I’m proud of you.”

Later that night, Dex asked if Nursey wanted to go on an evening run and Nursey agreed with a pretty good notion of what Dex wanted to talk about.

It took Dex a mile to finally say:

“I don’t understand. You call me out on little shit all the time. Stereotypes or like, unintentional bias. But that’s—I’m not _trying_ to be mean. Why do that with me and not people who are actually intentionally being shitty. Shouldn’t people like Chad be the ones getting your lectures about systematic racism?”

Nursey took a moment to frame his answer.

“When I was little I didn’t notice. Or maybe it wasn’t so bad. I was in a really selective private school that had a lot of diversity and international students. And since my parents are white I didn’t get a lot of—well. Samwell was a culture shock. So I did call people out, at first. Except if you embarrass people they tend to not want to be friends with you anymore. And—“

Nursey sniffed against the cold, rubbing his nose on the back of his gloved hand.

“I’m big. Intimidating. Even as a freshman, when I’d get angry people would sort of flinch away from me and I didn’t—I don’t like that. People being afraid of me.”

“So you just stopped?”

“No. I tried to be gentle about it. Turn things into jokes. Point out fucked up ideas people had without causing a scene. But doing that all the time is exhausting. Making sure I’m not stepping on people’s toes while trying to advocate for my own _personhood_ is—it’s easier to just let it go. Sometimes. Especially when you don’t think it will have any effect anyway.”

He sniffed again. Decided to be honest.

“Shitty. The guys. You. I know you’ll listen. Someone like Chad—“

“Lost cause?”

“Not worth my time or energy.”

“That’s fair.”

Toward the end of the run Dex asked: “Why don’t you just move seats, then. In Poly Sci.”

“Can’t give Chad the satisfaction. I was there first. He’s not making me leave.”

“Competitive asshole,” Dex said, more fond than anything else and Nursey had just raised an eyebrow at Dex who laughed because, yeah. There’s no way Dex would move either if it was him.

After that, Dex hadn’t brought Chad up again, or even showed any ire when Chad dubbed Dex _Trailer Trash_.

Until, of course, they take their seats for the final class.

“You’re a racist asshole, Chad,” Dex says conversationally after Chad has greeted them. “Has anyone ever told you that before?

Chad laughs. “And you’re fucking garbage.” He turns to address Nursey, “Hey Affirmative Action, maybe tighten the leash a little.”

Nursey doesn’t know what Dex is doing, but it doesn’t seem like he’s about to kill Chad or anything. He’s just turned in his seat, hands in the pockets of his jacket. Casual.

Nursey says nothing.

“I’ve been wondering,” Dex continues, “why it is you treat him—“ he nods to Nursey, “like shit. He’s nice. He’s a good student and a hard worker. He’s never done anything to you except, apparently, be black. I just don't get it. Why do you act like you’re better than him?”

“Because I _am_ better than him,” Chad says, easy, like it’s not even malicious, like it’s just fact. “He doesn’t belong here. And neither do you.”

“Interesting take,” Dex says. “Thanks.”

And then he turns around in his seat and gets out two number two pencils.

Nurse is baffled.

He doesn’t look at Chad but he’s pretty sure Chad is baffled too.

“You wanna explain what that was?” he murmurs, leaning into Dex while he finds his own pencils.

“One minute,” Dex says.

And then he stands up and moves to the front of the classroom.

“Mrs. Jamison?” he says, loud and clear, the drawl of his accent in full effect. “I think there’s something you’d be interested in hearing.”

“I’m sorry?” She says.

And then Dex pulls out his phone from his pocket.

“Chad has been saying racist stuff to another student who’d like to go unnamed all semester. That student didn’t want to make a big deal about it, but I thought—Samwell prides itself on inclusivity. I’m sure faculty would want to know if someone enrolled here might tarnish that reputation.”

Nursey nearly chokes. Because that was not Dex talking just then. That was pure Shitty.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mrs. Jamison says.

“Oh, here,” Dex says, and proffers the phone to her. “You’ll see from the time stamp this was recorded just a minute ago. It’s representative of Chad’s comments throughout the semester.”

He presses play.

In the sudden, curious, silence of the room, everyone can hear with perfect clarity the exact conversation that just took place between Dex and Chad.

It’s obvious Nursey is the one being talked about, even if his name isn’t said, and Mrs. Jamison looks right at Nursey, eyes wide and furious, but Dex reminds her quietly: “the other student would like to remain anonymous.”

She considers that for a moment and nods.

Dex and Chad are escorted out of the classroom to the principal’s office shortly afterward.

Dex returns within five minutes.

Chad does not.

And then Dex slides into his seat without looking at Nursey and their exams are distributed and Nursey has to sit there and focus, in silence, thrumming with curiosity, for an hour.

“I didn’t use violence,” Dex says, almost wary, an hour later, as they leave the lecture hall.

“You didn’t,” Nursey agrees.

“And it was my fault Chad got in trouble,” he continues, words sort of running into each other in his haste to get them out, “my name is the only one on the incident write up, and Chad actually seemed relieved about that. You’re just referenced as a student of color in the report. So it shouldn’t fuck up your dad’s like. Business partnership or whatever.”

“Oh,” Nursey says. “Who thought of that?”

Dex makes a face. “You don’t think I could have come up with it by myself?”

Nursey bites his lip.

“Shitty and Ransom,” Dex mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I asked them to help me figure out how to make sure Chad got what he deserved“ he pitches his voice higher, mocking, and says “without violence” like an insufferable ass. “But I also wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Nursey doesn’t know how to show appreciation that Dex will accept.

He lets their elbows knock together.

“Why did you wait until the last day of class, though?” he asks.

Dex shrugs, grinning down at the snow.

He’s wearing the green sweater under his leather jacket and one of the hats Nursey got him.

He looks good.

“I wanted to make sure he still pulled an all nighter studying for the exam. Feels good, doesn’t it? Knowing he put in a full semester of work before he failed the class.”

And that is so, marvelously, spiteful, so—so _Dex_ that Nursey could kiss him.

And—

Oh no.

_Nursey wants to kiss him_.

With, like, feelings.

Which. The attraction to Dex isn’t new. But the _feelings_.

The feelings are new.

“So you’re not mad?” Dex asks, looking at him sideways.

“No,” Nursey says faintly. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I was maybe like. Doing the—what did you call it the other day?—the white savior-ism? Thing.”

Nursey thinks about that for a second. “Nah. You were interceding where I couldn’t. Using your powers for good and not evil for once.”

“My powers of whiteness?”

“Of cunning malevolence.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

Nursey nudges him with his shoulder, pushing him into the snow bank a little.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

The Haus is empty, when they get back.

Jack is taking Bitty to the airport and won’t fly out for Montreal until the following morning. Nursey is planning to drive home sometime afterward. Dex is staying at the Haus for Christmas.

And Nursey thinks about the fact that Dex will be here, alone.

While Nursey is in New York City, alone.

And he thinks about Dex defending him in his own Dex ways. The fact that Dex’s recent actions might even be construed as affection.

And he does something very, very, stupid.

“Hey,” Nursey says, when Dex opens the door to the Haus. “Why don’t you come home with me. To New York. For Christmas.”

Dex laughs.

“I’m serious.”

Dex stops laughing.

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

Dex rolls his eyes, dropping his backpack gently onto the floor. “Look. You don’t need to thank me or anything. We’re good.”

“ _Thank_ you? That’s not—

“And I get that you probably enjoy going to balls and charity events and shit with your family. But I have no desire to spend Christmas doing whatever the hell rich people do to celebrate holidays, trying to fit in with your relatives and remember which fork to use. You do your suits and champagne and whatever. I’m good here.”

“Right,” Nursey says. “Yeah.”

The warm clutch of fondness in his chest from earlier has gone cold and icy. Like he’s been outside for too long and his lungs are considering whether or not he deserves to acquire a cough as punishment.

“Yeah,” Nursey says again. “You’re right. Stupid idea. I’m gunna—“

He nods toward the stairs.

“Oh,” Dex says. “Did you not want to go get food?”

“Nah. You go. I’ll get some with Jack later.”

“Okay.”

Nursey heads upstairs to pack.

He leaves before Dex gets back from dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI the whole "Bitty has a big dick" portion is the only time I've ever laughed out loud while writing something. I'm rather pleased with that little exchange.
> 
> Also I'm 99% sure I saw a Tumblr post about "Dex is Uber Serious about Deadliest Catch" and I loved it and decided to incorporate it, except now for the life of me I can't find it. So if someone can direct me toward it I'll credit it.
> 
> Edit: Thanks to @solveitwithbrownies, here is the tumblr post that inspired Dex's Deadliest Catch-watching proclivities: http://pugglemuggle.tumblr.com/post/157810432378/headcanon-that-dex-watches-deadliest-catch-the
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I am down to one unpacked box and I only have to organize my bookshelves and decorate one wall of the bedroom before I am entirely moved in. Progress! I just turned in the (hopefully final) draft of my rationale today and, provided I can get a solid amount of reading done tonight/tomorrow I'm going to take a quick trip home to Austin over the weekend so I can be at Ngozi's talk/book signing at Book People. If you're going, let me know! I love meeting strangers from the internet. See you next week!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief reference to past domestic abuse

When Dex gets back from dinner, the Haus is quiet.

There’s light coming from under Jack’s door upstairs, but Chowder and Nurse’s room is dark.

He doesn’t think much of it until he’s coming back from brushing his teeth and there’s still no light under Nurse’s door.

When he goes to bed and he knocks on the wall, two times, more tentative than usual, he doesn’t get a response.

He sleeps badly.

The following morning, he gets up shortly after dawn and finds Jack in the kitchen, poking morosely at a quiche that Bitty probably left for him.

“Hey,” Dex says. “Have you seen Nurse?”

Jack blinks at him. “He left yesterday.”

“Left?” Dex repeats.

“He went home early. Or I assume he did. He was leaving the Haus when I got back from dropping Bitty off at the airport and he had his bags with him.”

“I thought he wasn’t heading out for another day or two?”

“I know. It’s weird. He’d said he was going to wait until after everyone else left. But maybe his parents were able to come back after all.”

Dex, head mostly in the freezer, hopeful for another quiche, goes still.

He closes the door, turning to face Jack.

“What about his parents?”

“Oh. I don’t know specifics. I just caught the tail end of Nursey and Rans talking the other day. It sounded like Nursey was going to be alone for Christmas. Because his parents got caught up in, uh, the Maldives? I think. Since we only have five days off because of hockey it wouldn’t be worth the crazy long plane trip both ways to get him to them. And they couldn’t cut the trip short for whatever reason. He seemed pretty bummed. Especially since they missed parent’s week and Thanksgiving this year too.”

“So,” Dex says, crossing his arms, pressing his thumbs into his ribs because he deserves a little bit of pain. “So Nurse is spending Christmas alone.”

“Yeah. Unless his parents could come home after all—and maybe they could. I don’t know why else he would leave early.”

Dex does, though.

Because he just _keeps fucking up_.

“Is he—do you know his address?”

Jack frowns a little at the urgency in Dex’s voice.

“The one in New York?”

“Yeah.”

“I think so, but—“

“Jack,” he says. “I need to borrow some money.”

Jack abandons his quiche.

“Okay?” Jack says. “How much?”

“I don’t know. I need to get a train ticket. Nurse invited me to spend Christmas with him. And I didn’t—I thought it was like a pity thing. And that I’d just be in the way while he was spending time with his family. I didn’t realize—“

“Oh,” Jack says. “Yeah. Here,” he pulls out his phone, “I’ll get you a ticket right now if you want to go pack—you want to leave today?”

“Yeah. Or first thing tomorrow if it’s sold out today.”

“Uh, no. Looks like there’s one leaving in an hour that still has tickets available. I can drive you to the station if you can be ready in twenty?”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

He goes to pack.

He probably does a shit job but it’s not like he has a wide range of clothes and toiletries to choose from so he puts on his warmest clothes, throws the rest of his shit—and more gently deposits his rented laptop—into his backpack, locks his dorm, and meets Jack downstairs.

“Is this stupid?” he asks, as they get into Jack’s car. “I mean. Is this a stupid thing to do?”

“No,” Jack says. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s probably the right thing.”

So at least he has the blessing of his captain.

Dex makes the train with five minutes to spare, and it feels weirdly reminiscent of a moment months before: Looking out a bleary window. Bag in the seat beside him. Nose tucked into his leather jacket. An address in black sharpie on his wrist.

He texts Nurse that he’s on his way, curls toward the frosted window, and goes to sleep.

New York City is a lot bigger than he anticipated. Which is probably a dumb observation considering that like, obviously NYC is massive, but he just. Wasn’t prepared. He feels like an idiot, trying to maneuver his way through snow-covered, pedestrian-crowded sidewalks, in and back out of the subway, without getting lost or gaping at the sky, at buildings that are taller than anything he’s ever seen before.

Nurse still hasn’t answered his text and he’s a little bit afraid that he’s going to arrive at some fancy ass place in Manhattan with no way of getting inside.

It’s a little after 2pm when Siri tells him he’s reached his destination.

He ends the route on maps, considers the soaring, regal face of the building, and calls Nurse.

No answer.

He calls again.

No answer.

He calls again—

“—the fuck,” Nurse says. “ _What_?”

“Answer your goddamn phone, maybe,” Dex says. “I’m outside. Let me in.”

“What?” Nurse says.

“I’m outside your stupidly tall New York City penthouse whatever,” he says. “And I’m freezing my ass off. How do I get inside?”

“What?” he says again.

“ _Nurse_ , come on. It’s fucking cold out here.”

“I’m—hold on.”

Dex hangs up and shoves his hands back in his pockets, hunching his shoulders.

A minute later, a man in a suit opens one of the front doors. “Dex?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah?”

“You can follow me.”

The doorman—that’s what he is right?—lets Dex into a mirrored-chrome elevator, scans a fob thing and presses the 30th floor button.

“Mr. Nurse’s apartment is the one on the left,” he says.

And then Dex is alone.

His ears pop as the elevator ascends.

On the 30th floor there’s a small, polished, atrium with two doors. One left. One right. He knocks on the left.

And after a moment of fumbling from inside, Nurse opens it.

He’s wearing sweatpants and fuzzy socks—no shirt. His hair is a wreck. And he absolutely _reeks_ of scotch.

Dex takes a step back without meaning to. Then very intentionally steps forward again.

“Are you _drunk_?”

Nurse blinks at him. “A lot more drunk than I thought if I’m hallucinating.”

“Fuck you. What the hell are you doing, drinking alone at 2 in the afternoon?”

“I’m not alone,” he says, voice cutting, gesturing expansively with the bottle in this hand. “I’m drinking champagne with my massive rich family. We’ll get out all the different fancy forks soon.”

And okay, he maybe deserved that, but wow. Dex really does not like Nurse when he’s like this.

“Alright, asshole. I made a shitty assumption. Get over it. I’m here now. Move.”

He pushes past Nurse to get inside and locks the door behind him, taking a moment to shed his jacket and boots before stepping onto the ridiculously plush rug demarcating the living area from the rest of the open-concept first floor. Everything is decorated in shades of grey, minimal but opulent. The ceilings are vaulted. The appliances in the kitchen on the opposite wall are sleek. The windows are clear. The counters are empty.

The room feels cold despite the gigantic electric fireplace in the middle of it. Like it should be in a magazine, but not lived in. Like he should be careful not to leave fingerprints when he opens the lacquered cabinets.

He decides to worry about fingerprints later and has to try six different cabinets before he finds one full of heavy glasses in various sizes.

He fills one up from the water dispenser in the behemoth of a stainless steel fridge and then returns to Nurse, watching him, in the living room.

“Give me that,” Dex says, reaching for the bottle in Nurse’s hand. “Drink this water and then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

But Nurse’s hand just goes tight around the neck of the scotch.

“Stop it,” he says, petulant. “It’s mine.”

Dex pulls harder, thinking, a little hysterically, that they’re probably going to end up with several hundred dollars worth of spilled liquor on several thousand dollars worth of fancy rug.

“I’m serious,” Dex said. “Give it to me. You’re not drinking that anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because the smell of scotch is tied to every single memory I have of my dad beating the shit out of me. So give it to me and take the fucking cup of water or I’m going right back to the train station.”

Nurse lets go of the bottle.

“What?” he says.

“Here,” Dex pushes the glass into his hand, then holds onto the bottom for a minute, fingers overlapping Nurse’s, to make sure he won’t drop it.

“Okay, good. Drink that. I’m gunna go… do something with this.”

He ends up shoving the scotch in the back of one of the cabinets in the kitchen and then staring, a little hopelessly, into the completely empty refrigerator for a moment. When he gets back to the living room Nurse is sitting down, the cup is half-empty, and he’s glaring at the fireplace.

“Hey,” Dex says, dropping onto the couch next to him. “Finish it.”

Nurse tips the glass up. Four swallows. He sets it, empty, on the coffee table.

“Your dad hit you?” Nurse asks, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist.

Dex sighs.

“Yeah.”

Nurse crowds into Dex’s space and the full force of his attention is disconcerting.

The grey/green/brown of his eyes. The upset crease between his brows.

Nurse touches the scar on Dex’s chin with a cautious finger.

“He hit your face?”

“Pretty much wherever was available.”

Nurse’s expression does something. Dex can’t really parse it, this close. But it’s certainly…something.

“Is that why—Elle. With the. Um. Emancipation?” He says the word carefully. Five distinct syllables.

“Yeah. Come on. Let’s get you upstairs. You’re going to take a nap and I’m going to go get some groceries.”

“No.” Nurse says. He goes limp when Dex tries to pull him to his feet.

Like a goddamn toddler.

“ _Oh my god_. Why not?”

“Don’t want you to leave.”

“What the fuck, Nurse.”

“You should nap with me.”

“Fine. Whatever. Lets go.”

They make it up the stairs with only one near-death experience and then Dex convinces Nurse to shower and change into pajama pants by reminding him that he smells like scotch and then Nurse is damp and bedraggled and very sad-looking, sitting on his bed in an equally bland, magazine-pretty, room, looking betrayed as Dex tells him he’s going to find a store and he’ll be back in a little bit.

“But you said you’d stay,” Nurse says.

And wow. Fuck him for making that face.

“I’ll be back in like thirty minutes.”  
“Please,” Nurse says.

Dammit.

“Fine. Just until you go to sleep, though.”

Nurse nods solemnly.

Except the minute Dex sits down, Nurse is pulling at his shirt—up—tangling it around his shoulders and head and—

“What the hell are you—“

And then Nurse is gleefully throwing his shirt over the side of the bed, laughing into Dex’s chest, looking incredibly proud of himself.

“Better,” he says. “Now we match. And you won’t be hot.”

“You’re a mess,” Dex says.

“Yeah,” Nurse agrees.

And then he just sort of molds himself to Dex.

As close as friends are allowed to be when one or both of them are drunk.

Maybe closer?

Dex doesn’t know.

“Tell me,” Nurse says, poking the tattoo under Dex’s collar bone, “about this.”

“It’s a tattoo.”

Nurse pokes him harder.

“Ow, asshole. Fine. It’s—one of my cousins is a tattoo artist in Portland. She did the one on my arm too. Free. The rabbit on my foot was her too, but back when she was like fourteen and DIYed her own tattoo machine. I was twelve. Probably a miracle I didn’t get gangrene or something.”

Nurse pokes the rose again.

“Would you stop—what? What do you want to know?”

“Why a rose?”

“Because I fucking like roses, okay? Quit.”

Nurse trails two fingers down the center of Dex’s chest, then to the right, over the landscape of his ribcage, so light Dex can barely feel it.

His skin pebbles in the wake of Nurse’s hand.

“What happened on February eleventh?” He asks.

 His palm is flat against Dex’s side now, thumb against the tattoo against the thin skin against his ribs, rubbing back and forth like he expects to feel the numbers.

Dex closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about that one.”

“Okay.”

The acquiescence is surprising.

Nurse wraps his arm around Dex’s waist, pushes his face into Dex’s neck, and after what seems like a more than necessary amount of wiggling, he exhales, going lax and heavy.

“Hey,” Nurse says suddenly, urgent.

He knocks a fisted hand between Dex’s shoulder blades.

Two times.

Gentle.

Skin to skin.

Nurses’ knuckles against Dex’s spine.

Dex laughs into Nurse’s hair without even really meaning to.

“Hey,” he agrees.

He knocks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> I met Ngozi in Austin last weekend! She signed my copy of the book and we talked really briefly about my using Check Please! in my comics course. It was great. The BEST thing, though, was when she was doing a drawing demo and taking questions and I asked what was up with Nursey and leaves (the last update nearly killed me). And she was like. "I don't even know. He's just a forest boy. A forest Nymph." And I'm just saying, if anyone wants to be literal about that and write a Forest Nymph Nursey AU I 100% support you.
> 
> In Texas news, we got our first cold front of the season, which means instead of highs in the 90's we've had highs in the 70's instead! I wore a sweater this morning. It was marvelous. One of the awesome things about living in a very small space is that I've had my air condition off and my balcony door open with a box fan set in front of it for the last two days/nights and it's kept my apartment at a lovely 75ish degrees. Bliss.
> 
> In teaching news, my students first papers are due this weekend and, judging by the drafts I've seen so far, this is going to be a really great bunch in terms of mechanics/organization/style. I think my focus this semester will be getting them to leave their comfort zones and be more creative. I am ready for this task.
> 
> See you next week!


	11. Chapter 11

Nursey grew out his hair for the first time when he was thirteen years old.

As long as he could remember, every third Friday, his father would strip off his shirt and sit on the settee in the bathroom—or the wing-backed chair, or the vanity stool, or the edge of the tub, depending on where they were— with a towel around his neck and a wide grin on his face as Nursey’s mother touched up his crew cut.

Until his thirteenth birthday, Nursey’s mother would cut Nursey’s hair afterward.

It hadn’t really occurred to him until middle school that other hairstyles were an option.

Except then, in eighth grade, he’d made a black friend with dreads whose little brother had a small but impressive afro, whose older sister had braids one month, and then dreads, and then little pigtail puffs, and Nursey realized his close-clipped curls had the potential to be a new form of self expression. At very nearly thirteen, he was, of course, all about self expression.

So on his birthday, his baffled mother took him to a barber shop where the man patiently walked them both through different style options and how to achieve them with Nursey’s particular hair texture and it’d kicked off several years of experimentation that involved barbers more than his mother, though she certainly tried.

Nursey missed it a little, now, though: his mother cutting his hair. The every-three-weeks necessity of time spent in the bathroom with one or both of his parents, talking about nothing over the soft buzz of clippers.

He knows his mom still cuts his father’s hair each month.

It’s an amusing anecdote that is often trotted out at parties over wine and a selection of cheeses; the elite laughing about Elric Gwain Nurse, multi-millionaire, who still has his wife cut his hair.

His dad usually says something bland about self-sufficiency and his mother says something not so bland about perfectionism and ego and not trusting anyone but himself or her with his Very Important Head.

It wasn’t until Nursey was in high school that his father admitted he just _liked_ it. The habit. The intimacy of it. Every three weeks. A buzzing razor. Soft hands. A kiss on his forehead at the end.

He’d also said he was allowed to enjoy the neck massage his wife gave him more than one by some stranger and Nursey had said, _Ugh, Dad, do not_ and that was the end of the conversation.

He didn’t _really_ get it, though.

Not really.

Not until now.

Nurse wakes up to someone playing with his hair.

He’s still a little drunk, but in an almost painfully lucid way—overly conscious of exactly what a mess he’d been when Dex found him. How raw. How needy.

Despite that, though, Dex is in his bed. _Holding him_. One arm draped around his shoulders, one hand tucked up against his skull, palm fit to the curve of the back of his head.

It is a shadowed moment of stillness: the blunt edges of Dex’s fingernails moving gently over Nursey’s scalp, and he understands with startling clarity why his dad has always eschewed professional, potentially more flattering, hairstyles for a crewcut and his mother’s hands.

Because this is something entirely different than when a barber or even his mother, touches his hair.

This is something more.

“Hey,” Dex says, whispered, despite the fact that they’re alone. “You awake?”

Nursey considers pretending he’s not.

“Let me rephrase that,” Dex says. “I know you’re awake. Are you okay to get up?”

Nursey grunts and pushes his face harder into Dex’s bare neck because Dex isn’t shoving him away and his fingers haven’t stopped moving and Dex doesn’t know exactly how lucid Nursey is right now so he can get away with it.

“Let me rephrase again,” Dex says a moment later. “Get the fuck up.”

Nursey sighs and gets up.

“Thought you were getting groceries,” he says, because it’s the first thing that comes into his head and he’s maybe a little embarrassed and definitely not equipped to handle this situation.

“I was. But then I had two hundred pounds of drunken defenseman fall asleep on top of me.”

“You are fully capable of moving me,” Nursey points out.

Dex doesn’t deny it.

Nursey isn’t sure what that means.

“I _should_ go get food now, though,” Dex says. “Will you be okay by yourself for thirty minutes or so?”

“I’m coming with you,” Nursey says, despite wanting to do anything but.

“No you’re not.”

“Then I’m giving you money.”

“No you’re not.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“Nurse.”

Nursey stands, stumbles a little to where his wallet is on the dresser, and then throws it at Dex.

It hits him in the chest and he catches it, probably instinctively, before it can slide to his lap.

“Those are your options,” Nursey says. “And I will literally fight you at the register if I go with you, so.”

He can tell that Dex is getting ready for an argument so he cuts him off.

“You’re here,” Nursey says.

He doesn’t know how to say it better.

“You’re _here_. And because you’re here I’m not alone. That’s worth a hell of a lot more than whatever the groceries for us are going to cost.”

Dex doesn’t say anything.

“Are you—“ Nursey stalls, not sure how to ask. Or even if he should ask. “Can you stay for the whole break?”

“No,” Dex says. And. Okay, that hurts more than anticipated.

“I mean. I would? But my hearing is the twenty-seventh. So I’ll need to leave here the morning of the 26th. I think it will take a couple different buses to get there from here. I’ll need to check tonight.”

Oh.

“I’ll drive you,” Nursey says. Because he’s drunk and apparently in the mood to just say whatever he’s thinking.

“What? No.”

“It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“ _No_ ,” Dex repeats. “It’s like. A seven hour drive from here. In _snow_.”

“You would be doing me a favor,” Nursey says, suddenly viciously attached to the idea. “I like road trips. And you could show me around your hometown. And I could go to the hearing, maybe. To like. Support you or whatever. And it would distract me from being lonely and self-pitying and shit.”

Dex doesn’t say anything. Which may mean he’s about to give in or may mean nothing at all.

“I’ll probably just spend the rest of break drinking if you leave me here,” Nursey adds. Which isn’t fair, or true, but—

“Okay no,” Dex says. “You can’t fucking emotionally blackmail me with your wellbeing.”

“Please,” Nursey says. And he puts as much supplication as he can into the word. He meets Dex’s eyes. He holds them. “Please let me drive you.”

“Fine,” Dex says. His expression is completely unreadable.

“Thank you.”

They just look at each other for a moment, seemingly stuck now that they’ve made eye contact. Now that they’ve made a tentative but not insignificant commitment.

“I want KD for dinner,” Nursey says pointedly, belly-flopping onto the bed. “You should probably get to the store.”

“You’re an asshole,” Dex says. But it sounds like _thank you_.

***

Dex does make them mac and cheese for dinner. He insists on a chicken salad as well and Nursey eats it because it’s actually pretty good and he also doesn’t want to do anything that might make Dex change his mind about letting him drive.

“So,” he says, “can I ask about the hearing or—?”

Dex looks cautious, but not angry. “What do you want to know?”

“What exactly is it for? How will it work?”

“Well,” Dex says. “My father was arrested in February, and my stepmom decided to pick up and move in March and neither of us were much interested in me going with her. And I couldn’t just fly under the radar until I turned 18 since family services and stuff were involved, so in April I made a petition for emancipation. At first it was because we didn’t know if one of my uncles would be awarded temporary custody and I didn’t want to end up in foster care. My Uncle Bruce was, though, so none of this is really _necessary_ anymore. But I already paid the fees and did all this work and. I’d rather be the only one in control of me.”

That last sentence certainly seems to distill all of Dex’s Dex-ness into one statement.

“Okay,” Nursey agrees.

“So I got Elle assigned to me. And we put together evidence that I’m self-sufficient. My father’s parental rights have already been terminated. And Elle tried her best, but she couldn’t find my mother. So there’s nothing actively standing in my way. No one to fight. It’s up to the judge at this point. Elle is feeling positive.”

Nursey wants to hug him but there’s a very wide table top between them and he’s no longer drunk so he doesn’t have an excuse for the action.

He nudges Dex’s fork with his own.

“Can I come with you? Like. Into the court room? Or is that not allowed?”

Dex turns the fork nudge into a minor battle.

He answers when the tines get locked and they’re both looking down at the entangled utensils.

“No. I mean, yeah.It’ll be boring as hell but you can be there. If you want.”

“I’ll be there, then.”

“Okay.”

They keep eating.

They don’t talk about sleeping arrangements for the night.

Massive as the open floorpan of the house is, there are only two bedrooms and Nursey knows he should offer Dex his room and take his parent’s for the night but he doesn’t want to. He wants Dex with him. Close enough to touch even if he’s not allowed to actually touch anymore.

So he casually asks after dinner if Dex wants to watch TV and then, after Dex has agreed, he leads them straight past the fully appointed entertainment center in the living room and back to his bedroom with its smaller, but still perfectly acceptable, TV. Nursey pulls up the Netflix menu and then tosses Dex the remote so he can choose. He hopes that if he doesn’t say anything maybe Dex won’t say anything either and they can just. Watch TV on the bed together and then maybe fall asleep and then—well then they don’t _have_ to talk about sleeping arrangements.

Dex catches the remote.

He considers Nursey, furiously casual, at the foot of the bed, then the TV, then the remote in his hand.

He tosses it back.

“You pick. I need a shower.”

Nursey exhales. “Okay.”

Dex goes to shower.

When Dex emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later, he’s wearing the green sweater and the flush on his neck could be due to the humid heat that follows him or it could be due to the fact that they are both _very aware_ that he is wearing the green sweater.

_That was a choice he made_. Nursey thinks. _He had other clothes. A backpack full of them._

It might mean something. What, Nursey isn’t sure.

Dex sits on the bed next to him, closer than expected, and crosses his legs so his knee rests on Nursey’s thigh.

“If you come,” he says, slow and careful, attention on the wide knit cuffs of the green sweater, “you’ll have to meet the rest of my family. And there’s not a hotel or anything in town. And no extra bedrooms at my Aunts and Uncles’ places. I usually sleep on the couch or at the boathouse. But it’s not—“

He gestures a little, maybe at Nursey, maybe at the room in general.

His voice goes a little harder.

“It won’t be five star accommodations.”

“Good thing I don’t need those, then. Tell me about the boathouse, that sounds chill.”

Dex coughs out a disbelieving laugh. “It’s basically a futon and an electric heater crammed into a cinderblock hut full of old equipment. No bathroom. How do you feel about shitting in the woods?”

“Will you be there?”

Dex grins. “Fuck no. What kind of kinky stuff are you into?”

Nursey shoves his elbow into Dex’s side. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean _while_ I was—shut up. I was trying to be nice. I was trying to say that I didn’t mind giving up plumbing if it meant I was spending time with you.”

“Well stop. That’s gross.”

“No. _Shitting in the woods_ is gross. The feelings I have for you are not gross.”

And that—is a lot more than he meant to say.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Dex is startled enough to look up at him

“All feelings are gross,” he says. It sounds more like an instinctual response than anything else but now that it’s out there Nursey can say “whatever,” and they can move on without addressing the fact that Derek Malik Nurse has a very inadvisable crush on William Pointdexter.

Dex clears his throat. “Did you pick something to watch?”

Nursey had not. He’s about to hand the remote to Dex when there’s a spattering succession of pops, a shrill whine, and then more pops, from outside.

Dex stands, moving toward the window.

“What’s that?”

“Fireworks,” Nursey says. “Someone is probably having a Christmas party.”

“People set off fireworks at Christmas parties here?”

“Some people do.”

“I can’t see them.”

They can still hear them, though: more shrieking, a deeper boom, rapid machine-gun fire explosions.

“Might be the other side. You want to go look?”

“Yeah.”

Nursey takes them through the hall and into his parent’s bedroom which hosts a balcony. It’s not a very wide balcony but it is long, hugging the entire glassed wall. They can see the fireworks before they even step outside but they go out anyway, leaning into the cold wind.

Dex isn’t cautious so much as awed as he walks, still bare-footed, up to the railing, eyes wide and bright in the darkness.

The explosion of color is off the left-hand side, coming from the rooftop of another high-rise: eye-searing, wheeling, smears of yellow and white that end in blues and reds and purples and greens.

Nursey rests his elbows on the railing next to Dex and Dex leans into him. Like it’s natural. Like they do this, together, all the time. Maybe it’s because Dex is cold. Maybe it’s because he wants to. Considering Nursey’s earlier admission, it feels significant regardless.

Nursey turns his attention from the night sky to Dex. His profile. His parted lips and upturned nose. His stupidly long eyelashes.

Dex is built out of a sepia palette: a golden out-of-doors creature made for fall forest foliage and cool winds. Against the snowy backdrop of a lit-up winter-clad city he is something else entirely. An anachronism. A living, midnight, sunset. Something timeless and untouchable.

But Nursey does get to touch him.

He’s allowed, now, he thinks. At least a little. He’s pretty sure that means something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Casually ups the chapter count*
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> It is nearly fall break! I'd been trying to get as much quals reading done as possible so I could take the break off, except an article I submitted for publication has been "accepted upon revision" (yay!) which means I will now use my fall break for revising. ha
> 
> In teaching news, I have a little sentence hidden in the attendance policy in my syllabus to see how many students actually read the whole thing. It says, "If you're reading this, email me a picture of PK Subban in a fabulous suit." I had a student email me a picture of him in the USA one-piece bathing suit from his 4th of July Instagram post. Best response ever.
> 
> In fic-writing news, I now have 17 chapters complete and 50k words written of this "short" fic that was supposed to be 15 chapters and no more than 30k. Insert shrugging emoji. Good news is, that buffer will hopefully keep updates weekly through Thanksgiving and maybe even after exams/Christmas!
> 
> Okay, life story over. See you next week!


	12. Chapter 12

Dex wakes up next to a still-sleeping Derek Malik Nurse and it feels disconcertingly normal.The fact that he was able to sleep at all with someone beside him is surprising enough but waking up after a full night’s sleep, syrup-slow and utterly content next to the warm bulk of Nurse is—

A problem, maybe.

Definitely.

He gets up, steals Nurse’s headphones, and goes for a run because it’s on his workout plan and he needs the smack of cold air in his face, the burn in his lungs, to clear the slightly frantic static in his head.

Afterward, he makes breakfast without going upstairs to take a shower because if Nurse is still in bed he doesn’t know if he can resist crawling back in with him.

Nurse comes slouching down the stairs, bleary and soft-looking, as Dex is washing dishes.

“Hey,” Nurse says, leaning against the counter next to him.

“Hey,” Dex agrees.

“So, I was reading, earlier.”

Dex pushes the head phones down to his neck.

“Shocking.”

“Stop it. I’m trying to tell you a thing.”

Dex gestures obligingly with a sudsy fork.

“I was reading,” Nurse says. “About emancipation.”

“Okay.”

“And, uh. Options. For if they decide not to grant you the emancipation for whatever reason.”

Dex runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

“There _aren’t_ any options at that point. Other than to wait until I’m 18. Which isn’t like, a huge deal. But.“

He shrugs.

“Well,” Nurse says, slow and cautious and utterly unchill. “If you still wanted to. There’s marriage?”

“Marriage,” Dex repeats flatly.

“Yeah. If you’re seventeen you can get married as long as you have a parent’s or guardian’s permission. So. If your uncle was cool with it. And anyone who’s married gets automatic emancipation. I checked.”

“You checked.”

“Yeah.”  
“And who the hell am I supposed to marry,” Dex says, “ _you_?”

Except Nurse.

Nurse is looking at him like he’s expecting Dex to punch him, which—

Oh no.

Oh hell no.

“What the fuck, Nurse.”

“I mean. I’m already eighteen. And it’s not like it would be for long? Just until you’re 18 and then we could—“

“No.”

“It wouldn’t have to _mean_ anything.”

Of course it fucking would.

“No,” he repeats.

“But it would solve everything! And you wouldn’t be all—stressed. About it anymore.”

“You think it wouldn’t stress me out to be fucking _married_ _to you_?”

And great. Now Nurse looks hurt.

“Right. You’re right. It was a stupid idea. I’m still mostly asleep, so—“ he turns back toward the stairs.

“Wait.”

Nurse waits.

Dex rinses his hands.

The bottom of his T-shirt is wet where he’s been leaning against the counter.

He looks at that wet line and not Nurse.

“I appreciate the fact that you would be willing to do that. It’s stupid as shit and completely unnecessary but it’s…nice.”

Nurse grins.

“That looked like it hurt.”

“It did.”

“Will you at least like. Put it on the back burner? Just in case something changes and you need to? Because I’m down. A marriage before I’m out of high school would be a really great cry for attention. My parents might actually show up for a wedding.”

The words are a little too brittle to be entirely a joke but Dex isn’t sure what to do with them.

“Fine,” Dex says. “Now fuck off.”

“This is my kitchen,” Nurse points out. “And I’m hungry.”

“Then sit down and shut up. I’ll make you an omelette.”

He doesn’t know why he has decided Nurse needs an omelette, but he’s suddenly certain of the necessity.

“Okay,” Nurse says and he’s smiling at Dex in a way that makes Dex feel squirmy and warm.

He dries off the pan he just finished washing and puts it back on the stove.

“You want spinach?”

“Nah,” Nurse says.

“You should have spinach.”

Nurse squints at him.

“…Yes?”

“Good.”

Dex gets out the spinach.

Nurse continues to smile at him.

He puts the headphones back on.

***

Derek Malik Nurse navigates the city like it’s an extension of himself.

They spend the rest of the day—Christmas Eve—hitting tourist destinations, ostensibly for Dex, but more likely because Nursey just likes showing off his knowledge. As day turns to afternoon, Nursey shows him the not-tourist-destinations. His favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese place. His favorite tiny cafe. His favorite tucked away scraps of greenery: desperate plots of earth wedged between concrete and metal, frozen and stark but still vibrant, somehow, in their tenacity.

They go to the MET as the sun sets, taking advantage of extended holiday hours, and Nurse pulls him from exhibit to exhibit, a low constant commentary that evolves as they progress from Picasso to Klimt, to ceramics from the Qin and Han dynasties, from charcoal to oil to photography to sculpture.

Fifteen minutes before close, Nurse grabs the cuff of Dex’s sleeve and tugs him into a new room to stand in front of a painting that Dex knows intimately.

It’s brighter in person: the colors more vivid than those on the bulbous blue-tinged library computer monitor.

_War._

“This is one of my favorites,” Nurse says. “Do you like Jackson Pollock?”

Dex laughs a little helplessly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

He knows most of the paintings in the room—each lit by a spotlight. _Autumn Rhythm_ is to their left. _Pasiphaë_ is to their right. A string of numbered works: enamel, acrylic, wax, are on the wall behind them.

“Yeah?” Nurse says, maybe a little disbelievingly.

“Yeah.”

Dex points to each canvas in turn.

He names them.

He likes the way Nurse looks at him as he does.

“What’s your favorite?” Nurse asks. There’s a sharpness, a challenge, to his voice that makes Dex stand up straighter.

“Here? Or out of all of his works.”

“Both.”

Dex steps to the left and Nurse moves with him.

“Here, _Autumn Rhythm_ ,” he says. “Out of everything? Probably _Convergence_. Or _Reflection of the Big Dipper_. Or maybe _No. 5, 1948_. It’s not actually the 1948 painting, though.”

“No,” Nurse agrees. “Because when it was damaged in 1949, Pollock completely painted over the original instead of just fixing the one spot that was messed up.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them are looking at the art anymore.

“Why do you like it?” Nurse asks, and it feels urgent. Important.

He doesn’t know how to put it into words but it also seems necessary that he try.

“It makes me feel things,” he says, and that’s. Not enough. “It’s so full. Overwhelming. Like I don’t want to look at it too long but also don’t want to stop looking at it once I start. And I think— the original buyer, Alfonso Ossorio, when he saw that Pollock had repainted it, he wasn’t mad because he said it was an example of a second chance. I like the idea. Of that.”

Nurse doesn’t say anything, just looks at him.

Dex thinks maybe he’s ruined whatever the moment was. Because surely his stupid, badly phrased analysis is an affront to whatever the real artistic merit of the painting is.

But maybe not.

“I really like that one too,” Nurse says finally.

“Supposedly it’s in a private collection here in New York somewhere,” Dex says, dragging his eyes away from Nurse’s. “No one knows who the current owner is, though.”

“Yeah,” Nurse says.

He steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

He laughs a little.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “You want to see it?”

***

One of Dex’s favorite Jackson Pollock paintings is hung on the wall in Derek Malik Nurse’s house.

That feels like it means something.

Thirty-Two square feet. _One hundred and forty million dollars_ worth of fiberboard and synthetic resin. A barrage of color.

And it’s just.

There.

On the wall.

In the _closet_.

Which, admittedly, the master closet in the Nurse house is bigger than some people’s living rooms, but still.

A _closet_.

And it’s behind a fancy-ass glass case that monitors the conditions inside, apparently, and protects it from all the whatever in the air, and it has a billion different security measures but it’s.

It’s just _there_.

Lit up between a wall of shoes and a line of nearly identical black suits.

There.

Right in front of him.

Dex might be having a slight crisis.

_One hundred and forty million dollars_.

Nursey is standing next to him, has been standing next to him for some time, looking unsure.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I have no idea,” Dex says.

They eat dinner in the closet because he doesn’t want to leave. Because if they do then the painting will just be sitting there in the dark not being appreciated and that seems wrong.

Eventually Nurse coerces him away with a promise that they can visit again first thing in the morning and Dex gets ready for bed on autopilot, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that _No. 5, 1948_ is in the _goddamn closet._

One hundred and forty million dollars.

“I feel like I maybe shouldn’t have showed you,” Nurse says, sitting on the bed, watching him brush his teeth through the open bathroom door. “You’re being weird.”

Dex shrugs.

He is being weird.

He knows.

“It’s my dad’s favorite painting. He got it in 2006. One part investment. One part gift to himself. My mom was pissed because it was a pretty big chunk of their savings, I guess.”

Dex feels a little hysterical about that sentence.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Nurse adds. “Uh. Please.”

“Yeah,” Dex agrees. “No problem.”

“Are you—should I not have showed you?”

And the soft uncertainty there breaks Dex out of whatever revery he’s been in.

Because Derek Malik Nurse should never sound like that.

“No,” he says. “I’m glad you did. I’m just.”

And he realizes he’s going to have to explain.

He’s not sure if he can, though.

He spits in the sink, rinses his mouth, and then moves to sit on the bed.

“When I was a kid, one of my cousins used to make fun of my freckles. She said I looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

“That doesn’t seem like an insult,” Nurse says.

Dex shrugs. “So I looked up who he was at the library. Got a little obsessed, maybe. The paintings, though, they didn’t seem _real_ on the computer screen. Or even at the MET earlier. Like. There’s art that’s real and there’s art that’s…bigger than real. You know? Art that you can touch and own and art that exists more as an idea than an object. And I was just sort of used to the fact that, in my lifetime, the art that would be accessible to me would be like. Fucking crayon drawings on the refrigerator or whatever. And then there’s you. With a Jackson Pollock in your closet.”

“My dad’s closet,” Nurse corrects quietly.

“The point is. It’s suddenly tangible. _Almost_ touchable. But still not.”

“Touching it is a bad idea,” Nurse says.

“Okay, asshole. That’s not—I’m just. Trying to wrap my head around the beauty of it but also the circumstances? What it means? If that makes sense. Like.”

He gestures between them, not at all sure if Nurse is following him because he’s not entirely sure where he’s going with this himself.

“You have a one hundred and forty million dollar painting in your closet.”

“My dad’s closet,” Nurse repeats, even quieter.

“And I had to borrow fifty dollars from Jack so I could take the train here.”

“Oh-kay,” Nurse says.

He doesn’t get it.

“We are,” Dex says, “from two _really fucking_ _different_ worlds. And I was sort of getting comfortable in yours. A little. But now.” He gestures vaguely toward the master suite.

“So,” Nurse says slowly. “You’re saying you’re having some sort of crisis because you’re like… the crayon drawing on the refrigerator in this analogy. And I’m the Jackson Pollock?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Nurse reaches out. Slow. Giving Dex plenty of time to stop him.

Dex doesn’t stop him.

He tucks two curled fingers under Dex’s chin and rubs his thumb over the crest of Dex’s cheekbone, where Dex knows his freckles are most dense.

“I thought we’d already established that you were the Jackson Pollock.”

“Shut up,” Dex says. The words are thin. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. And I think you’re wrong.”

He doesn’t give Dex a chance to respond.

“When Alfonso Ossorio bought the painting in 1949 he paid $1,500 for it. And his partner, Ted Dragon, reportedly responded when he brought it home, ‘you spent money on that?’”

“Ted Dragon was an idiot,” Dex says. The words are heavy in his mouth. “What’s your point?”

“The point is that at the same time that some art critics were calling Pollock a rebellious, volcanic, prodigy, others looked at his work and just saw ugly chaos.The only reason that painting is 140 million dollars is because someone thought it was _worth_ 140 million dollars.”

Dex is hyper aware of Nurse’s fingers pressed up under his jaw, his thumb now rubbing at the hinge where he’s clenching his teeth.

“You saying you think I’m worth 140 million dollars, Nurse?”

It’s meant to come out derisive.

It doesn’t.

“More, probably,” Nurse says, utterly without artifice.

And Dex.

He wants to—

He _wants_.

But he can’t.

He leans back.

Nurse’s hand falls to the duvet in the space between them.

“Sorry,” Nurse says, like even makes sense. Like he’s done something that requires an apology. “Do you want to watch _Deadliest Catch_?”

Dex feels like he may be suffering from conversational whiplash.

“Sure,” he says faintly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dex realizes he has The Feelings, Nursey continues to have feelings, and the slow burn starts to smoke a little.
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Well. I officially have my qualifying exams dates. The final week in November will be the Week of Reckoning. Which means I have a tad over 6 weeks before the moment that my entire professional future hinges on (screams quietly). Pray for me. 
> 
> See you next week (where there will be ice skating in central park because I Live for that shit). :)
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and I might actually get around to answering them one day but right now I'm spending my meager free time writing, which I think we all agree is the best use of it, yeah? Anyway, I love y'all.


	13. Chapter 13

Nursey wakes up next to a still-sleeping William Poindexter and looking at him—mouth parted, freckles spilling over the edges of his lips and crowding across the bridge of his nose, eyelashes resting pale and spiky on pigment-spangled cheeks—makes his stomach clench.

The _feelings_ situation isn’t getting any better.

And if it was anyone else, he would just lean over and kiss him.

But it’s Dex.

Dex who is…difficult. Complicated.

Because as much as he’s changed in the last couple of months, Nursey also remembers the boy who was needlessly cruel. Who hated him, maybe. Who, more often than not, left Nursey feeling terrible and hollow.

But Dex _has_ changed. And where he hasn’t changed, he’s trying. He instigates physical touch. He’s trusted Nursey with parts of his past that it’s unlikely he’s shared with anyone else.

The scar on his chin seems a lot more ominous now.

He’s _here_ , is the point.

In Nursey’s bed.

Vulnerable and soft and infuriatingly pretty.

But Nursey also doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is. And kissing him probably would.

Dex opens his eyes, meets Nursey’s, and Nursey starts to deny the fact that he was watching Dex sleep except he can’t. Because that’s exactly what he was doing and it’s pretty damn obvious. Dex just blinks at him.

It’s snowing, the light from the windows grey and muted behind the partially closed curtains.

“Morning,” Dex says roughly.

“Morning,” Nursey agrees.

They go for a run together, navigating traffic and snowy sidewalks and slick ice patches.

They take turns showering.

They make breakfast, sharing quiet morning space, talking with their bodies: hip checks and elbow nudges and hands on shoulders.

They eat in the closet with the painting.

Neither of them brings up their conversation from the night before.

Neither of them mentions the fact that it’s Christmas.

They spend most of the day out in the city again. Nursey takes Dex to Coney Island and they nearly freeze to death in the harsh icy wind on the pier.

They huddle together on the train, laughing about nothing, bicker happily through another Chinese dinner, tucked in a booth by the window, watching the snow through frosted glass and then—

Then they go skating in Central Park.

He knows most New Yorkers avoid the tourist mayhem of it—especially on Christmas day—but some of his best childhood memories were made skating at this rink and it’s the kind of idyllic shit that Nursey lives for: Light snow and hot chocolate and the jut of skyscrapers backgrounding trees backgrounding christmas lights reflected on ice.

It’s Christmas music and wobbly kids in puffy down parkas and people holding hands.

It’s Dex’s shoulder, pressed warm and firm against his as they stand in line at the rental counter.

“I’m getting your skates,” Nursey says.

“No you’re not,” Dex says.

“You had to take care of my drunk ass. Consider it an apology.”

“I may not be able to afford a Jackson Pollock,” Dex snaps, “but I can manage _five dollar rental skates._ ”

Nursey exhales, long and slow.

He does not say what he wants to say.

Instead, he pulls Dex out of line and out of earshot of other people.

“The fuck are you _doing_ ,” Dex says, once they’re at the scrubby edge of the trees. “We just lost our spot in line.”

“My father,” Nursey says slowly. “Bought that Jackson Pollock. Just like he bought the rest of my parents’ art and jewelry and various houses and cars. But none of it is _mine_. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop conflating the two.”

Dex blinks at him.

“Uh. Okay?”

“I just. It bothers me. When you act like it’s mine. I’m not joining the family business or getting into the NHL or anything that’s—I’m just a glorified mooch. And eventually when I’ve figured out what I want to do with my life I won’t even be that anymore.”

Dex looks like he cycles through several responses before settling on:

“But you’re their kid. Their _only_ kid. And they sent you to Samwell for the best education. Paid for your car and all your gear and your mom sends you shit all the time. You don’t think they’re going to want to keep taking care of you for as long as you need? Probably longer? I mean. Isn’t all of their stuff _going_ to be yours some day?”

And that’s—

Nursey crosses his arms.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Dex crosses his arms too.

“I feel like we’re talking about two different things here. You wanna tell me why your face looks like that?”

Nursey doesn’t know what his face looks like but he can imagine.

He _doesn’t_ want to talk about it, though.

He hasn’t talked about it with anyone except, very briefly, Ransom, and even then it was more of a ‘hey, so I’m not sure my parents love me anymore and it kinda sucks did you know the cafeteria has fudge? We should go get some and never speak of this again’ sort of thing.

“Nursey,” Dex says.

He must look upset if Dex is calling him anything other than ‘Nurse.’

“It’s nothing. Parent stuff. Whatever.”

“Parent stuff,” Dex repeats. “Should I call Bitty? Because this is really not my wheelhouse, but—“

“I think they got tired of me,” he says. Mostly because Dex probably _would_ call Bitty if he doesn’t say _something_. “I mean. They haven't cut me off or anything. And yeah, my mom still checks in with me and sends me stuff. But I think maybe now that I’m an adult it’s like. I don't know. I’m not interesting anymore?”

Dex is frowning at him.

He tries again: “It’s like. I turned sixteen and all the sudden they didn’t have time for me anymore.They’ve always traveled but they’ve also always come back. For big things, anyway. Thanksgiving. Christmas. My birthday. Except they stopped.They missed one or two for the last couple years and all three this year. I haven’t seen them in person since the beginning of summer and even then it was like. For a week.”

“Have you, uh, asked them about it?”

“No.”

“You think maybe you should?”

“Probably.”

Neither of them says anything for several seconds, hands in pockets, not looking at each other.

“I’m really not the person to talk to about parent shit,” Dex says lowly.

“Then maybe you should stop making me talk about parent shit.”

Dex sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

It shouldn’t be cute.

It is.

“You think maybe they like…think you don’t want them around as much? Because you’re getting older and becoming your own person or whatever? Like, maybe they don’t realize how important it is to you to stay as close as you used to be.”

Nursey shrugs.

“It’s just. Your mom is clearly thinking about you all the time from the cards and weird stationary and little gifts she sends you from all over the world. I find it hard to believe she’s gotten bored of you if she’s putting in that effort.”

Nursey shrugs.

Maybe he’s being ridiculous.

Probably he is.

Dex makes a harried noise. “Have you thought about like. Just fucking saying you miss them? In a text or something?”

“Look,” Nursey says. “We really don’t need to do this. Are you going to let me rent you skates or not? It’s not charity or pity or whatever the hell you think it is. I just have an unlimited credit card in my wallet and you don’t.”

Dex sighs.

“I’ll let you rent us both skates,” Dex says.

“Thank you.”

“—but only if,” he continues, “you get us figure skates.”

He looks pleased with himself.

Bold of Dex to assume this will win him the argument.

“Fine,” Nursey says. “Figure skates it is.”

“Wait,” Dex says, “what?”

“Come on,” Nursey says, grabbing his wrist and towing him back toward the ice, “lets see if the nice people who were behind us in line before will let us cut back in front of them. Try to look a little less like you’re planning a murder, maybe.”

Ten minutes later, Nursey is beginning to suspect he’s made a mistake.

“I think,” he says. “This might be a mistake.”

“What gave you that idea?” Dex says, grinning down at him.

Nursey, sprawled on the ice, takes a moment to catch his breath.

His tailbone hurts.

“How do people use these damn things?” he asks.

Dex helps haul him to his feet, still laughing, and then promptly trips over his own toe pick and it’s only through a combination of Nursey’s steading hands and a relatively impressive flail, thatDex doesn’t end up on the ice himself.

“Okay, yeah,” Dex says. “This was fucking stupid.”

“Maybe we should go exchange them,” Nursey says, not letting go of Dex’s arm. “I mean. Me getting injured is one thing, but I’d rather not be responsible for breaking a future NHL player months before the draft.”

“We’ll just go slow,” Dex says. “And we don’t know if anyone is going to draft me.”

He hasn’t tried to shake off Nursey’s hand.

“My money is on you going top of the second round. Jack thinks you might go first round, though. Just FYI.”

Dex stops.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.”

It’s Nursey’s turn to stumble again, losing the edge of his outside skate, and once Dex hauls him upright, laughing, Nursey links their arms.

He doesn’t think about it.

Which is probably why he does it.

Dex looks sideways at him, but doesn’t say anything and silence grows between them as they make a slow lap around the rink, elbow hooked around elbow, hands in the pockets of their coats.

It’s not anything so obvious or declarative as holding hands, but it’s something.

And Dex has to _know_ it’s something.

Right?

Dex’s cheeks and nose are pink under the dark pigment of his freckles. His eyes look like liquid gold in shadowed light from white bulb-wrapped trees. Dex is wearing one of Nursey’s “old” jackets that Nursey threw unceremoniously at him the day before, complaining about it being too tight in the arms, and it fits him perfectly. It’s waterproof and warm in a way that Dex’s leather jacket is not. It’s hooded, a navy pea coat with thick lining and a waxed cotton exterior and. It looks nice on him. Nursey hopes he can convince Dex to keep it.

After three circuits without either of them falling, Dex says quietly: “About the hearing.”

Nursey waits.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to drive me.”

“Dex,” he says.

“It’s just—your car isn’t going to be able to handle the roads in my town. Not in snow. And the driveway at uncle’s place isn’t even paved. You should really just let me take the bus and—“

“I won’t drive us in the Porsche,” Nursey interrupts. “I was going to swap before I went back to Samwell anyway.”

“Swap,” Dex repeats. “Swap what?”

“My dad keeps a Range Rover here in the city. When my parents got me the Porsche last year the deal was that I had to swap it for the Range Rover during the worst of winter. So I have four wheel drive in the ice and snow.”

“Oh,” Dex says.

Nursey’s thinking maybe he should have found a better way of divulging that information. A way that didn’t point out the fact that his parents have so much money they just leave cars scattered at various residences across the world. But Dex isn’t pulling away from him. If anything, he’s moving closer.

“They must care about you a lot,” he says finally, “about your safety or whatever. To make that part of the deal.”

It’s quiet, but pointed.

“I guess,” Nursey agrees.

“Do you have chains for the tires?” Dex asks. “We probably won’t need them on the drive, but we definitely will while we’re in my home town.”

The way Dex says “home town” is full of rounded vowels and apprehension.

The way Dex says “we” is a lot a nicer.

“I do have chains,” Nursey says.

Dex grins at him, no doubt knowing the exact follow-up sentence he neglects to say aloud.

“Do you know how to put them on?”

“In theory. Do you?”

“In both theory and practice.”

“Well,” Nursey says, “that’s convenient.”

Dex tucks his hands further into his pockets, forcing Nursey’s arm closer to his side. They lean into each other, warmth between them and cold air on the backs of their necks.

“I don’t know how I’m going to be,” Dex says lowly.

He’s looking down at their rental skates: scuffed and ice-flecked and stark against the bright white of the ice.

“Even without him there—“ the _him_ feels weighty and terrible “—I don’t know. I might not handle it well. I might be a dick.”

“And that’ll be different from usual, how?”

“Nursey.”

Nursey swallows.

“Sorry.”

They’re already pretty much pressed entirely together where their arms are linked. Nursey is used to communicating with Dex through elbow nudges and hip checks and brief hands on shoulders, but right now, none of those are options.

He’s supposed to be good with words.

They’re failing him, here.

“It’s fine,” he says, after a too-long pause. “It’s—I’ll give you a weekend pass or something. We’ll figure it out.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Dex says, sort of choked, and it takes Nursey a minute.

“Okay, asshole. I’ll give you a mid-week pass. What the hell ever.”

“Okay,” Dex agrees.

And oh.

Apparently they can get closer.

Dex abruptly takes his hands out of his pockets a moment later, pulling his arm out of Nursey’s, and points to the rink exit.

“I’m going to go get some hot chocolate. You want one?”

Hot chocolate is $2.50.

Nursey considers and then immediately decides against fishing a $5 bill from his wallet.

“Your treat?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll take one. Extra marshmallows.”

Dex nods decisively and then, careful without Nursey beside him, skates out.

Nursey watches him go—freckled neck pink between the fur of his coat hood and the grey knit of his hat.

Dex glances over his shoulder, notices Nursey is watching, and grins a little before stumbling, apologizing to the couple he nearly ran into. He throws a glare over his shoulder a moment later like it’s Nursey’s fault.

Nursey laughs and then has to reach for the boards to avoid falling.

Dex is…something.

Something important.

The potential there—in linked arms and over-the-shoulder glances—is both exhilarating and a little terrifying: necessary of caution.

He’s like a poem in a language Nursey doesn’t know.

But he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> 5.5 weeks before I take my exams. I'm on track to finish all my readings by the end of next week, which is good. But the panic is already starting to set in a little. I've still been sneaking a little writing in here and there, but I haven't made much progress. Mostly I'm just trying to stay sane and getting everyone's awesome comments is contributing significantly to that effort. Like. Even if I epically fail at academic writing, at least people seem to enjoy my fiction! ha. I'm just going to keep apologizing for not answering said comments, but please take this as blanket thanks. You guys are awesome.
> 
> See you next week, where there will a road trip, some A+ music from my Youth, and maybe some hand-holding.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: Dex starts to have an anxiety attack, but it's resolved quickly

The Range Rover that pulls up to valet the following day is freshly washed, which seems counter-intuitive considering the grey mire of slushy snow they’re about to drive into.

Dex might have said something about it if it wasn’t for the fact that he feels like someone has a hand around his stomach and is just… slowly tightening their grip.

Nurse has been looking at him like he’s an animal that warrants slow movements all morning.

He hates it.

Nurse puts their bags in the back and Dex moves to sit in the stupidly comfortable, heated, passenger seat.

He texts his uncle that they’re on the way and then closes his eyes.

He hadn’t slept well the night before.

He should have been able to. He was tired and distressingly comfortable and Nursey was breathing, soft and reassuring, beside him.

But he couldn’t.

Eventually he gave up. He went down to the kitchen and packed food for the trip the next day, cleaned all the fingerprints off the lacquered cabinets, fixed the one drawer by the sink that wasn’t rolling correctly, and then he’d gone and sat in the closet with the painting.

Nurse found him there the next morning, chin tucked in the valley between his bent knees, shadows under his eyes.

Nurse didn’t say anything about it.

And now they’re in New York traffic: Horns and sharp movements and a communal blatant disregard for lane distinctions. Nurse has one careless hand on the steering wheel, drinking tea from a thermal cup in his other hand, humming a little to himself, and there’s no way Dex is even going to pretend to try and sleep until they get out of the city.

It’s insane.

Which fits the theme of the trip, maybe.

He still can’t believe he’s agreed to this. That within eight hours they’re going to drive Nurse’s Range Rover down the pitted dirt driveway to his uncle’s thousand square foot, one-hundred-year-old, wood-shingled, wood-stoved, relic of a home, and then he’s going to introduce Nurse to his family.

Nurse.

With his Coach sunglasses and his 4 piece matching set of Tumi luggage and his floral fucking Doc Martens.

Dex isn’t embarrassed by Nurse, though. If anything, he’s already feeling defensive of him. Because his family might make the same assumptions about Nursey that he had initially and he—he doesn’t want that.

Yes, Nursey is rich and beautiful, but Dex knows now that those are the least noteworthy things about him.

Dex blinks at his own reflection in the window.

_Fuck._

He balls up the coat Nursey had lent him and is clearly hoping he’ll keep, shoves it between the headrest and the window and aggressively tries to fall asleep.

Surprisingly, it works.

He wakes up hours later at a gas station when the automatic pump shutoff thunks outside.

He jumps a little, then gets out to clean the windshield.

Nurse returns to the car with bananas and coffees for each of them less than a minute later and before Dex can offer to pay for his, Nurse is opening the passenger door and throwing himself inside, telling Dex it’s his turn to drive.

Sleep-muddled and cold and honestly a little surprised that Nursey is willing to _let_ him drive, Dex forgets to argue about the money until he finishes his coffee twenty minutes later and reaches for the remaining banana in the cupholder. By then Nurse is either asleep or pretending to be so Dex drops it.

He knows with the ice and snow it might be faster to stay inland and cut back east after going through Bangor, which is possibly why he decides to take HW 1 all the way up the coast.

When Nurse wakes up, he doesn’t say anything about the fact that Dex has turned off the car’s navigation system.

They stop at the Narrows Observatory to eat a late lunch—chicken salads and leftover KD Dex packed at 2am. Nursey coerces Dex into exploring the fort to “stretch their legs” despite the fact that it’s fucking snowing. But Dex is plenty warm in his borrowed coat and Nursey’s smile is bright and white against the grayness of the day, so he doesn’t really mind.

Back at the car, Nurse says it’s his turn to drive again, and the clenching feeling in Dex’s gut is just getting worse, so Dex doesn’t argue.

As they’re crossing the bridge, Nursey turns on the radio.

Fifteen minutes later, he still hasn’t settled on a channel and Dex would usually be ready to strangle him but he just.

Doesn’t care.

He’s too—he doesn’t even know. Too something.

He realizes his knee has been bouncing anxiously since they got back in the car, and he stops himself with a grimace, hooking his ankles together, wrapping his arms around his middle, pushing down, wondering why it’s getting progressively harder to swallow.

And then the first guitar chords of _Iris_ , clear and loud and too perfect for the radio, come out of the Range Rover’s speakers.

Dex straightens, looking at Nursey.

He looks at the the aux cable connected to the phone in Nursey’s hand.

The speakers say:

_And I'd give up forever to touch you_

_'Cause I know that you feel me somehow_

_You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be_

_And I don't want to go home right now_

“Are you seriously playing the Goo Goo Dolls right now?” Dex asks.

Nurse’s attention is on the road.

“It was the least objectionable band on your iPod,” he mutters.

“Sure,” Dex says. “Except that’s not my iPod. It’s your phone.”

Which means that either Nursey specifically downloaded the song for Dex or he already had it.

Dex isn’t sure which one he wants it to be.

Well.

That’s a lie.

It turns out Nurse has the entirety of _Dizzy up the Girl_ and they listen to the rest of the album before Nurse switches to a Matchbox Twenty song, and then Snow Patrol. Green Day is followed by Blink 182, Fall out Boy, and 30 Seconds to Mars, before they settle in for several My Chemical Romance songs in a row.

Somewhere around _American Idiot_ , Nurse starts singing along and by _Sugar We’re Going Down Swinging_ he’s goaded Dex into joining him.

They’re more or less screaming _Teenagers_ together when they hit the Port Marta city limit.

Dex turns down the music a few minutes later.

“It’s, uh—the directions are kinda complicated from here,” he says, pointing out an upcoming turn. Nurse slows as they leave the main road and the asphalt turns pocked and crunchy with half-frozen slush. A mile later, they stop and put the chains on the tires.

Afterward, without the distraction of cold and a task to accomplish, the anxiety from before comes crowding right back into Dex’s chest.

Nurse doesn’t turn the music back up, but he does keep singing along, albeit much quieter.

Dex does not.

Dex is trying to breathe and not having much success.

He thinks about the past two days.

He thinks about sleeping so close to Nurse he can feel him breathing, about walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him down crowded sidewalks, and tucking himself into Nurse’s space in cramped restaurant booths and subway cars. He thinks about the comfort of knocked elbows and grabbed wrists and linked arms.

Except Nursey’s massive fucking car is too big and too luxurious and there’s too much space between them now to recreate any of those things.

Dex looks at the space between them, and considers.

The Range Rover is an automatic, but Nurse’s hand is resting on the ball of the gear shift out of habit: Perfect half-moon nails. A subtle map of tendons and veins under dark, soft, skin.

Dex thinks about the fact that Nurse volunteered to drive him home. The fact that Nurse is planning to go to his hearing. Dex thinks about the fact that Nurse apparently has all of Dex’s favorite music in his iTunes library and has just spent the last hour distracting him. The fact that Nurse has given him nearly every article of clothing he’s currently wearing.

Dex grabs Nursey’s hand.

It’s not elegant.

It’s not slow or subtle or cautious because if he’d actually thought it through enough to attempt any of those things he wouldn’t have done it at all _, what the fuck_ , _why did he do it?_ except now he _has_ and now he’s sliding his fingers into the divots between Nursey’s fingers, lacing them together, palm to palm, pulling their joined hands to rest on his thigh.

Dex looks out the window.

He knows his face is red.

He can feel the heat of it.

“What are you doing?” Nursey asks.

He seems to realize what a stupid question that is pretty much as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it’s already out there in the air between them and now Dex has to answer it.

“Holding your fucking hand,” Dex says. “You got a problem with that?”

“…No.”

“Good. Slow down. You need to turn up here.”

Nursey turns.

He squeezes Dex’s hand.

Dex presses his hot face against the window.

_It’s not a big deal,_ he thinks (it is).

_It doesn’t have to mean anything,_ he thinks (it does).

When they park in front of the house, the sun is nearly set—below the tree line but not yet the horizon. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney.

The house looks the same as it always does: small and tilted and ramshackle, well-kept but wearing every one of it’s 103 years. It is a charming spot of warmth in the desolate winter landscape, yellow-orange light spilling out the windows to reflect on the icy porch. 

The assortment of cars scattered across the yard, if it can be called a yard, are much in keeping with the house: old, functional, and loved, though not particularly pretty.

They park between his uncle’s rust-spotted 1981 Chevy and his cousin’s 1988 Jeep Wagoneer which had once been his aunt’s 1988 Jeep Wagoneer. The wood paneling is shiny in the fading sunlight. It’s just as hideous as he remembers.

What makes him go still, however, is the car he hadn’t noticed until Nursey turns off the engine.

It’s tucked around the corner of the house, nearly out of sight in the growing shadows under the trees:

A 1995 Subaru Forester.

Silver, with bubbled tint on the windows and a blue front bumper that he installed himself at 15.

His father’s car.

“Hey,” Nursey says. “We getting out?”

Nursey manages to phrase the question entirely without judgement, as if there isn’t an obvious answer.

Dex is reasonably sure that if he tells Nursey no, and to turn around and take them back into town, Nursey will do it without a second thought.

Dex swallows.

“Yeah. Sorry.” He nods to the Subaru. “That’s my dad’s car. It makes sense my uncle would have it now, I just. Wasn’t expecting to see it here.”

“Oh. Shit.”

Nurse rubs his thumb against the back of Dex’s hand.

“You need a minute?”

“No. I can see Pearl staring at us from the window. Let’s go.”

Nursey doesn’t ask him if he’s okay, which he appreciates.

He’s not okay.

But he’s working on it.

“Any last advice?” Nursey asks.

“What?”

He nods toward the house. “To make them like me.”

He probably means the words to come out joking, but Dex knows Nursey.

It’s a sudden and weighty thing to realize—the two of them draped in the faded colors of sunset, holding hands, car engine silent but the speakers still whispering the quiet chorus of _Set Fire to the Third Bar_.

He _knows_ Nursey.

And Nursey is nervous.

Dex just hadn’t noticed until now because he was so wrapped up in his own anxiety.

“They’ll love you,” Dex says roughly, and everything about this moment feels illusory.

He doesn’t understand how anyone _couldn’t_ love Nursey. How _he_ didn’t, initially.

“If they don’t,” he adds, “They’re fucking idiots. Come on.”

He lets his fingers slide from between Nursey’s as he leans to open the door.

The breathtaking chill of icy, ocean-salted wind is a welcome sting against his hot face; the solidness of frozen ground under the tread of his boots is a comfort.

He flexes his empty hand before shoving it in his pocket.

He slings his backpack onto his shoulder.

He blinks snow out of his eyes and starts up the front steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's log:
> 
> I have a touch of the plague and am Very Miserable so no commentary this week. See you next time. Enjoy the continued slow burn and look forward to meeting Dex's family (and one of my favorite OCs) next week!


	15. Chapter 15

The Poindexters don’t hug.

Which maybe only stands out to Nursey because his parents tend to hug everyone: family members, house staff, new acquaintances, even mascots at sports games.

Dex’s family isn’t unkind or anything, they’re plenty welcoming and there are definitely plenty of them _to_ welcome them. The house is crowded with people and the furniture that contains them. Multiple couches and mismatched recliners fit like puzzle pieces around a TV that is probably the same age as Nursey. The dining room has two tables in it. One round and painted yellow, the other a thick rectangular block of wood. They’re pushed together with just enough room between table-edges and walls for people to squeeze into seats. Only three of the dozen chairs in the room match. The walls are painted a pale blue-green and there’s art all over them: Crayon drawings and splattered, slightly crumpled, water-color paintings. There are multi-colored paper plate snakes and a model of the solar system hanging from the ceiling.

Acollection of women yell hello from the kitchen and the men scattered around the various couches take turns doling out friendly back-slaps and handshakes. Actually, there are several women in the living room too, dressed in the same palettes and styles as the men: Carhartts and flannel and baseball caps, holding beers and complimenting Dex on his obvious muscle gain and asking if it’s true he might get drafted? Wouldn’t that be something.

Nursey gets much the same treatment except after the initial introductions and confirmation that, yes, he plays hockey with _Will—_ that’s going to take some getting used to—they don’t seem to know what to do with him.

He’d taken off his Doc Martens at the door when Dex removed his boots, and he occasionally glances over at the pile of shoes now, where the largely untouched floral leather stands out, vibrant, against the battered browns and blacks of the others. Usually it’s a contrast he’d take pleasure in, but it makes him self-conscious here.

“Are those your shoes?” someone asks and he turns to find a small, pink-cheeked girl looking up at him.

“Yes?”

“I like them. They’re going to get dirty, though. You probably shouldn’t wear them in the snow or your mom will get mad.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Hi,” she says, extending one hand. “I’m Piper.”

She’s wearing double-cuffed corduroy overalls over a double-cuffed thermal sweater. Her pigtail fishtail braids are thick and gold and nearly to her waist.

He’s surprised by the firmness, or at least the attempted firmness, of the handshake.

“I’m Nursey,” he says.

“Is that a name from a special place?” she asks.

“Uh.” He glances at Dex for assistance, except Dex is talking with one of his uncles about hockey, arms crossed, their heads ducked together, not paying any attention to Nursey and his small inquisitor.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well some people have names from special places,” she informs him patiently. “So they don’t sound like regular names. Like my cousins Siobhan and Saoirse. Their names come from Irishland.”

“You mean Ireland?”

She considers this, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Maybe.”

“That’s cool. Ireland is really nice.”

Her eyes widen. “Have you been there?”

“I have.”

“Is that where your name is from too?”

“Oh. No. Nursey isn’t my real name. It’s a nickname. My real name is Derek. But all my friends call me Nursey.”

“Why?”

“Well my last name is Nurse, and I play hockey. And sometimes hockey players like adding “y”s to other people’s last names and calling them that instead. It just kind of stuck.”

He hopes this is an acceptable explanation, but he’s terrible at judging kids’ ages. Does Piper even know what a “y” is?

“Oh,” she says after a moment of contemplation. “Like Matty. His name is Matthew but most people call him Matt at school except we all call him Matty and he _hates_ it.”

She grins happily through her delivery of the last three words.

Nursey loves this child.

“Right. Except I actually like people calling me Nursey.”

“Cool,” she says. “Do you want to see my room?”

“That would bring me the utmost happiness,” he says.

“You’re kind of weird,” she says, offering him her hand.

He accepts it.

“I know.”

He learns a few important things from Piper in the next fifteen minutes. Like her favorite color is yellow but sometimes blue. Like she hardly ever got to see her cousin Will when she was “little” and then she saw him all the time for a while because he lived with them and it was great because he would play with her but now he’s gone at school and she misses him a lot. He learns that she has two favorite stuffed animals: a dog and a lobster. The dog’s name is Brownie despite the fact that he’s black. The lobster’s name is Nicolaus Copernicus. He learns that she really likes the stars and maybe wants to be an astronaut one day and that she asked for a telescope for Christmas this year except telescopes are a lot of money so she’ll have to wait until she’s older.

He learns that she doesn’t like her Uncle William because he was mean to Aunt Maura and he gave Will nightmares and dads shouldn’t ever give their kids nightmares.

He learns that, sometimes, if Piper woke up because Will was having a nightmare on the couch, she’d bring him Nicolaus Copernicus and let Will sleep with him so he wouldn’t be afraid.

Nursey thanks her. And then, just as seriously, he thanks Nicolaus Copernicus.

“No problem,” says Nicolaus Copernicus.

Nicolaus Copernicus has a very squeaky voice.

Dinner is a cacophony of happy noise.

There isn’t an overabundance of food, but everyone has fish and potatoes and greens on their plates and none of the kids are complaining though Piper does make some relatively impressive faces while finishing her broccoli. Nursey serves himself less than he would normally and Dex probably notices and is probably going to yell at him about it later, but—it’s nice. Everyone is smiling, even when they’re arguing. And Dex isn’t exactly talkative, but he’s probably said more in the last hour than he usually does in a day.

Nursey is just starting to relax when Dex’s uncle Joe moves the conversation to Samwell’s hockey season and Dex’s draft prospects and one of the cousins—probably a year or two older than them—says that if Will makes it to the NHL he might finally get a girlfriend.

And maybe the comment would have been overlooked, except Dex flushes, looking down at his plate.

“Oh,” one of the women says. “Will, honey, do you have a girlfriend, now?”

“No,” Dex says.

“Not from lack of interest,” Nursey says loyally. “He’s just always practicing or doing school stuff or working. He hardly ever has extra time and never breaks curfew. The coaches love him.”

Everyone over the age of 30 in the room nods approvingly.

Everyone under the age of 30 rolls their eyes.

“What about you, Derek?” One of the aunts asks. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I bet,” Piper’s teenage sister murmurs.

Its the uncles’ turn to communally roll their eyes.

“No,” Nursey says. “No girlfriend.”

“Why not?” Piper’s sister asks.

And Nursey.

Doesn’t know how to respond.

This isn’t something he’d prepared for. He doesn’t know if the rules here are different. If he needs to lie by omission or risk being kicked out—risk having to leave Dex to handle the hearing alone. Potentially risk his own safety.

He looks sideways, hoping for assistance, and Dex has stilled, but he meets Nursey’s eyes calmly.

He lifts one shoulder, subtle, not a warning, just an indication to proceed as he wants.

“Because,” Nursey says. “Girls aren’t really my thing.”

The table goes briefly silent.

A woman in a Habs hat on the opposite side of the room grins widely at him.

“What _is_ your thing?” Piper asks around a mouthful of potatoes.

“Boys,” Nursey says.

Piper looks crestfallen.

“Does that mean you don't like to be friends with girls then?” she asks.

“Oh, no. I totally do. It just means I don’t want to kiss girls.”

“Well thats fine,” Piper says, like he’s being stupid. “Kissing is gross anyway. So you’re going to marry a boy some day? Like Aunt Maura is going to marry a girl some day?”

“Maura?” Nursey says.

“Hi,” Habs hat says. “I’m Maura. Resident Lesbian. Congratulations. You’ve upped Port Marta’s out queer population to three. Charles at the general store would be delighted to meet you, just FYI.”

The relief is like a punch to the chest.

Nursey grins back at her.

“Guess we should have known, considering those flowery boots,” one of the men at the table says. It’s clearly not malicious, meant to be a joke, but Dex shoots him a glare with such vitriol that Nursey feels oddly warmed.

“Don’t be ignorant, Joe,” one of the women says—Piper’s mom, maybe?—“Just because I grew up wearing your hand-me-down clothes with trucks and boats and ‘manly’ shit on them doesn’t mean I ever wanted to steal your girlfriends. Though I probably could have. If I wanted.”

“And god knows all the bows Mama tried to permanently affix to my head didn’t make any difference in me _trying_ to steal your girlfriends,” Maura adds.

The grey-haired woman at the end of the rectangle table, who Nursey guesses is their mother, sighs.

“Speaking of,” Maura says, “When was the last time you _had_ a girlfriend, Joe? Longer than it’s been for me, I think.”

Dex’s uncle—Bruce? Piper’s dad, Nursey thinks—brings the conversation back around to Samwell and asks about Dex’s grades and Nursey exhales.

Shortly after dinner, the house empties because everyone over the age of 16 has to work the next day.

The house feels strangely silent after the last car has left, despite the fact that it’s still full of people. Bruce and Elaine, Dex’s aunt and uncle, owners of the property, are washing dishes together in the kitchen, their movements habitual and sweet. Their kids Matthew (16), Pearl (14), Mason (10), and Piper (7), are taking turns getting ready for bed in the house’s single bathroom.

Nursey and Dex set the living room to rights—straightening recliners and folding blankets and tossing communal toys into a basket behind the TV, and then Dex goes to bring some firewood in from off the porch while Nursey gets coerced into reading Piper her bedtime story.

Later, Nursey lays on his back on one of the couches, a handmade quilt tucked around him, and stares at the shadowed ceiling.

“Hey,” Dex says.

He’s on the other full-sized couch, head only a foot or so away from Nursey’s, feet hanging off the opposite end.

“I should have told you about Maura,” Dex says. “I didn’t think to.”

“It’s okay. I should have asked how chill people were, but I didn’t think it’d come up and then I didn't want to lie but I also didn’t want to like—get kicked out.”

“Yeah,” Dex says wryly, “Because driving back an hour to the nearest hotel would have really sucked in comparison to this.”

He can’t see Dex in the dark, but Nursey can guess he’s gesturing to their current accommodations.

“Well,” Nursey says. “I would have been alone. And I wouldn’t have been able to go to your hearing. So. Yeah. That _would_ have really sucked.”

Dex doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Anyway,” he mutters roughly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. When did Maura come out?”

Dex makes an uncertain noise. “When I was pretty young, I guess. My dad wouldn’t let me spend much time with her growing up because of it. She’s cool, though. I took her place as a sternman on uncle Bruce’s boat when she got her own boat a few years back. She has an all-female crew and they consistently have some of the highest numbers in the harbor. She’s kind of a legend, now. Her call name is Anne Bonny.”

Nursey knew he liked Maura.

He thinks about her sharp smile.

He thinks about the critical way she’d watched Nursey and Dex for the remainder of the evening after dinner.

He thinks about what she’d said: that Nursey _upped Port Marta’s out queer population to three_.

He thinks about that number: 3

1\. Maura. 2. Charles from the general store. 3. Nursey.

He wonders if the way she’d said _out_ was pointed.

He thinks about Dex holding his hand in the car.

He wants to ask, but he doesn’t.

“How are feeling about tomorrow?” he says instead. “Nervous?”

“As fuck,” Dex agrees. “Probably won’t be able to sleep.”

“You need me to go get Nicolaus Copernicus?” Nursey asks.

Dex says nothing for several seconds and then: “I’m going to kill Piper.”

“She’s my favorite.”

“Of course she is. Fucking assholes, the both of you.”

He can tell Dex says it with a smile, though.

It’s quiet for several minutes, a quiet full of wind and creaking old-house noises and the gentle crackle of shifting logs in the fireplace.

Nursey is starting to fall asleep when he hears the cadence of Dex’s breath change. Its subtle. But it’s there.

He untucks one of his arms from the blanket and reaches blindly toward Dex’s couch.

He ends up slapping Dex in the face.

“Ow,” Dex says. “What are you _doing_?”

“Give me your hand,” Nursey says with more confidence than he feels.

“Why?”

“Why do you think, asshole?”

Dex gives him his hand.

It’s awkward, their joined fingers hanging in the triangle of empty space between them.

“I know I’m not a stuffed lobster,” Nursey starts, “but—“

“You’ll do,” Dex interrupts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are Nursey's boots, if you're curious: 
> 
> https://www.shoes.com/dr-martens-pascal-8-eye-boot/419450/1853852?cm_mmc=googleproductads_pla-_-none-_-none-_-none
> 
> And this is Nicolaus Copernicus:
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/Puzzled-Big-Eye-Lobster-Plush/dp/B0092J67XE
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> A quick life update: I am still alive. Less than a month until Quals. Deacon is a good boy. 
> 
> Prepare yourself for some Emotions next week. See you then! :)


	16. Chapter 16

The hearing is utterly unremarkable.

Short.

Practically casual.

Nursey volunteers to drive, and Dex offers his uncle the front seat. Dex sits in the back and plays with the cuffs of the green sweater and watches the snow fall outside. They have to drive forty-five minutes to Chissapee Falls because Port Marta doesn’t have a courthouse and, even there, the courthouse is a small brick building next to an even smaller building that claims to be the post office, next to a bait and tackle store.

Elle meets them there with a hug for both him and Nursey and a handshake for Uncle Bruce.

She greets the judge by name, asks about his daughter’s gymnastic aspirations, and then spends ten minutes looking at pictures on his phone from said daughter’s most recent competition. The actual hearing takes about the same amount of time as looking at the pictures.

Dex, originally afraid he’d be underdressed in khakis and the green sweater, considers the judge’s scuffed waterproof boots—the same pair, incidentally, that his uncle is wearing—and the camouflage paracord bracelet on his wrist, and feels like the whole thing is bizarrely anticlimactic.

Twenty minutes later, he pays $25 at the clerk’s office for a certified copy of his

Declaration of Emancipation.

An hour after that, they’re further inland, yet another, larger, town, and he’s at a DMV office, waiting to file his MC-315 form and get a new ID that says he’s—

Emancipated.

He doesn’t know what his feelings are doing and he’s not going to try and figure it out until he is far, far, away from other people.

When they get back to the house, his uncle doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“I told Joe I’d be in as soon as we finished,” he says, arms crossed, leaning against the formica countertop. “But he’d understand if—“

“No,” Dex says. “I’m fine. I was going to take Nurse to eat at Luella's anyway and check the boat. Maybe take him down to the lighthouse after. So. We’ve got a full day planned.”

“Well,” he says, sounding relieved. “Alright. You be careful if you go out on the water.”

Dex gets a soft pat on the shoulder which is the Uncle Bruce equivalent of like, a sobbing, full-body hug from Bitty, and then he more or less runs out the door.

“So,” Nursey says, tossing his keys. “Luella’s?”

“Actually,” Dex says. “I want to check on the boat first. Can you drop me off there and then go explore the docks on your own for a few minutes while I take care of things?”

Nursey catches his keys and doesn’t throw them again.

“Uh, sure? What stuff do you need to do, though? I could help.”

“You can’t,” Dex says. “Just wander and around and take pictures for your Insta. The aesthetics at the cove are right up your stupid hipster alley.”

“Dex,” Nurse says.

“Look,” he snaps, “I just want to be alone for like five minutes, okay? Take a fucking hint.”

“Okay,” Nursey agrees placidly. “Do you actually _want_ to be alone, though? Or do you feel like you have to be?”

“The hell does that even—“

“Dex,” Nursey says. “If you need to be a dick to me right now, that’s okay. If you need me to leave you alone, I will. But don’t make me leave because you feel like you’re not allowed to have feelings in front of other people.”

Dex wants to hit him.

And is then, immediately, viscerally, horrified with himself.

He wouldn’t.

_He wouldn’t._

And it’s not like Nursey is wrong.

“Fine,” Dex says,“but we’re not talking about it.”

“Okay.”

“At _all_.”

“Okay.”

Nursey hands Dex the keys.

Dex drives them to the docks.

The boathouse is at the far side of the cove at the end of a rocky, desolate, road that necessitates four wheel drive. The cinderblock cube of a structure is perched on a little spike of land that juts out into suddenly deep, dark, water.

Dex maybe stomps around a little more than necessary as he turns on the generator, then the space heater, then heads down the dock to see to the boat while they’re waiting for it to warm up inside. He checks all the moorings, coaxes the engine to life, then circles the deck while it runs, more out of habit than necessity, making sure everything is okay. Nursey trails quietly after him.

“I feel like this is probably a stupid question,” Nursey says after they’ve locked her back up again. “But what happens when the water freezes?”

“It won’t. Not here in the harbor. Some people will dry-dock for the winter just to be safe, especially if they’ve got smaller, older boats, but they’re alright through the winter as long as you check on them every few weeks and make sure none of the fuel lines freeze up.”

They leave the boat and return to the boathouse, ducking through a door several inches shorter than either of them. The small space has warmed up quickly in their absence, and they strip out of their boots and coats.

There are piles of nets and gear, rolled up maps, lightbulbs, radios, replacement parts for the trap hauler and an assortment of tool boxes varying in age and size.

Dex turns on one of the solar lanterns and sets it on the tiny table under the single window.

“Well,” he says. “Here’s the boathouse.”

Nursey stands in the center of the room: considering the deluge of machinery and tools sharing space with a futon piled with blankets. Dex watches his eyes track from the old hockey sticks, slowly increasing in size, mounted on the wall, to the milk crate full of trophies and medals beside the futon, to the curling Paramore and Panic! at the Disco posters on the back of the door, to an old spiral-bound notebook of now-useless English notes on the table.

Everything is crusted with salt and smells like fish.

He doesn’t want to look at Nursey’s face, because this is the closest thing he still has to a childhood bedroom: A space that belonged to his previous self. And if Nursey finds it lacking—which, how could he not?—Dex doesn’t know if he can handle that.

He sits on the edge of the futon and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.

At the DMV, they’d said he could keep his old license picture, but he’d asked to retake it anyway, even though that meant spending an extra $5.

He sets the two IDs, old and new, side by side, one on either of his thighs.

In his old picture, he’s wearing one of his uncle’s t-shirts and the yellow-green remnants of a week-old bruise on his temple. The stitches in his chin are fresh and his expression dares anyone to ask how he got them.

At the time, his uncle had said Dex needed a license so he could pull his weight and help drive the younger kids to school if he was going to be living with them. He knows now it was just his uncle’s way of giving him some measure of independence in a world where he felt he’d lost all control. He doesn’t hate it, the picture. It reminds him of his uncle’s kindness. But he doesn’t like it, either.

In the new picture, his shoulders are broader, his cheeks less hollow, and the most noticeable things about his face are his eyes: gold, and his freckles: everywhere. He can’t even see the scar on his chin. It’s a good picture. He thinks he likes it.

But.

He touches a finger to the moose head lurking in the background of the new ID, then drags the same finger to blot out his small, pixelated, face.

He looks so young.

He _is_ so young, even if he forgets sometimes.

And he’s now entirely responsible for himself. Officially, legally, he has no family.

It doesn’t mean anything, really.

Nothing is going to change.

He’ll still be loved and welcome in his aunts’ and uncles’ houses.

He’ll go back to Samwell and live the same exact life he’s had for the last six months until graduation. And then he’ll find a shitty apartment and a job and make ends meet for a month before the draft and then—then, he’ll turn 18 and he’ll hopefully be signed somewhere and start a life where it doesn’t matter that neither of his parents wanted him. And he can make sure, at least, to not repeat their mistakes with his own children. He will never be so cruel, so selfish, as to create something that needs love and then abandon it.

Suddenly, the minor peace he’d found in the habitual movements of checking the boat is gone.

He takes a breath, chokes on it, and then takes an angrier one.

He folds the cuff of the green sweater over his knuckles and drags it viciously across his face.

“Hey,” Nursey says.

“Shut up,” Dex says.

Nursey shuts up.

He moves to stand next to Dex, arms crossed, but not impatient, and waits.

“You’re going to sit there,” Dex says, pointing to the far side of the futon, “against the wall.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m—“

Nursey keeps waiting.

“I'm going to sit in front of you and lean back against you. And you’re going to hold on to me. Really—“ he swallows. “ _Really_ fucking tight. And you aren’t going to say _anything_. _”_

“Okay.”

Nursey listens. He doesn’t say anything as he follows Dex’s instructions. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Dex is maybe, definitely, crying, or the fact that he’s stretching out the cuffs of the sweater Nursey gave him because Dex has balled the sleeves into his fists and is pressing them into his eyes.

Nursey wraps his arms around Dex, curls his fingers around his own biceps, and pulls Dex back solidly against his chest. He hooks his chin over Dex’s shoulder. He brackets his hips, tight, with his thighs.

It helps. Maybe.

But it’s not enough to stop whatever is happening in his chest.

Dex knows how to deal with sadness. He knows how to deal with pain and disappointment and regret. But this is a different sort of beast than mourning. This is grief mixed with anger mixed with triumph. And it sits like a fiery, screaming, thing inside of him that he doesn’t know how to let out or even if he should.

“Hey,” Nursey says, and Dex realizes, absently, that he’s shaking.

Nursey shifts him, shoves him, so his knees end up hooked over one of Nursey’s thighs and his face is pushed into Nursey’s throat. One of Nursey’s arms wraps around his rib cage, crushing them even tighter together, and his other hand cups the back of Dex’s neck, thumb pressed to his pulse.

“Hey,” he says, more urgently, “Hey, you’ve gotta breathe, Dex.”

Dex tries to respond. He tries to say: _shut the fuck up, I said no talking._

Except it doesn’t work.

His mouth is open but he doesn’t think he’s making any noise, or at least not words. It’s just sudden, hitching, wet breaths that shudder in and out of him, horrible and unwieldy and entirely without his permission.

Dex pushes his fists harder into his eyes.

“Hey,” Nursey says again. “Hey, no, its okay.”

His mouth presses against Dex’s temple—maybe a kiss, maybe just an accident.

His arms around him tighten.

“Just breathe,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

***

Dex wakes up with a headache, a dry mouth, and a strange cathartic emptiness in his chest.

His eyes feel gritty and swollen.

“Hey,” Nursey says, inches away, when he opens his eyes.

Dex closes them again when he remembers.

“Dex,” Nursey says, “come on.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Dex opens his eyes.

They’ve sort of managed to slump horizontally on the futon, but Nursey is still partially propped on the wall and it can’t be comfortable.

“How long was I asleep?” he asks, straightening.

His face is a mess of dried snot and tears but he doesn’t want to wipe it on the green sweater. He’s already stretched out the sleeves, he doesn’t need to completely ruin it.

“Not long. Maybe thirty minutes. Seems like you needed it.”

Nursey stretches, leaning over the side to pull a water bottle out of his backpack, then shifts so he’s sprawled in the space Dex has left.

“Hey, come here.”

Dex looks down at him.

“What?”

“Come _here_.”

It takes a series of halting movements, but he obeys.

Dex accepts a drink out of the proffered water bottle, belly down, propped up on his elbows, and then tips a little into one hand, dragging a wet palm over his face. Except then he has a wet face and still nothing to dry it with. He elects to use the quilt on the futon. It’s seen worse.

Nurse laughs and smooths Dex’s eyebrows flat again with his thumbs.

“You feeling better?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He considers apologizing again but doesn’t.

“Thank you,” he says. It takes effort.

Nursey grins because he knows. “So you said something about a lighthouse earlier?”

“Yeah. We can go if you want. We’ll need to stop for food first, though. It’s way past lunch.”

“Are we going to argue about money?”

“Probably.”

“How about…” Nursey pauses, sitting up. “First one back to the car pays?”

“Deal,” Dex says, already diving for his shoes.

Except Nursey doesn’t stop to put on his shoes. He just scoops them up on his way out the door and runs in his socks, shrieking like a loon, to the Range Rover.

By the time Dex has laced his boots, locked up, and joined him, Nursey is sitting in the drivers seat, laughing uproariously, pulling off his damp, snow-covered socks and shaking them out the open window.

“I hate you,” Dex says, slamming the passenger door.

“Don’t play,” Nursey says, “You love me.”

He might.

***

Dex takes Nursey to the most beautiful spots he can think of. They’re all pretty bleak considering the heavy blanket of winter and intermittent snowfall but Nurse seems excited about every new location and between making Dex take pictures of him backgrounded by steep cliffs and giant rocks and crashing surf and making Dex take pictures _with_ him, he runs out of phone battery.

They hold hands again, without either of them discussing it, while they’re driving back to the house.

And when they get there, Dex slips his hand back in Nursey’s as they walk across the yard and up the steps and onto the porch just because he isn’t quite ready to stop yet.

Because Nursey will let him.

Because he wants to.

Because it makes him happy and he’s decided he deserves happiness.

They separate before he opens the door and he’s afraid Nursey might try and make him talk about it except, once inside, they’re almost immediately accosted by Piper who commandeers Nursey for an “important mission.”

Nearly simultaneously, Uncle Bruce asks Dex to help him bring in wood from the wood pile up to the porch.

“So,” his uncle says as they descend the steps.

Dex braces himself because a “so” in that tone from anyone in his family means nothing good.

“Henry said he saw you two at the docks earlier.”

Dex briefly considers going and locking himself in the Range Rover. He has the key in his pocket. It’s an option.

“He said you got there looking real upset and came out of the boathouse an hour later looking a whole lot better.”

Dex shrugs.

“You said you don’t have a girlfriend,” his uncle says. “Should I be asking if you have a boyfriend?”

Dex throws another plaintive look toward the Range Rover. “No.”

“No,” Uncle Bruce repeats. It’s a very judgmental _no_.

“Nursey isn’t—we’re not together. I mean. I do, uh. I would. But we’re not. So.”

Jesus. He’s a train-wreck.

“Not together,” Uncle Bruce repeats. Uncle Bruce likes repeating things. “You telling me you hold hands with all of the boys on your hockey team?”

“What? _No_. What do you—?”

“The house has windows, son.”

Right.

His uncle also manages to make silence judgmental.

“So, what,” Uncle Bruce says, “You’re hoping the two of you might just accidentally fall into a relationship without ever having to talk about it?”

Dex winces.

“Will. Your grades tell me that you’re not stupid. But that? Is pretty damn stupid.”

“I was really fucking terrible to him,” he admits. “I treated him like shit for the first solid month that I knew him.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Yeah.”

“With words?’

“ _Yes_.”

“Have you quit treating him like shit?”

“I mean. Obviously.”

“I don’t see the problem then.”

Dex sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“That boy looks at you like the sun shines out your ass,” Uncle Bruce says. “I don’t think he’s holding any grudges.”

Dex would really like to not be having this conversation anymore.

“His family is—he has a lot of money.”

“No shit?” Uncle Bruce glances at the, now mud-splattered, Range Rover. “I never would have figured that.”

“Oh my god, would you stop?”

“Still don’t see the problem.”

“I thought we were getting wood,” Dex says, maybe a little desperately.

His uncle shakes his head and looks at the porch, already fully stacked with split logs. He throws his hands up and walks back toward the house. “Maybe the boy really is stupid,” he mutters to himself.

Dex can’t argue with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> I've finished my reading for quals. I've talked to my committee members. I have one last meeting with my chair on Tuesday and then I have thanksgiving break to Stress before The Week of Reckoning. AHHH.
> 
> It's been raining an obscene amount here (like really out of the ordinary for Texas) which is nice for my Studying Aesthetic, but also wreaking havoc on the nature preserve where we live. Poor Deacon is constantly getting bathed and feeling grumpy about it because everything is mud. I also took down our bird feeder so the seed wouldn't rot and there is a small hoard of equally grumpy, damp, birds banging their little grumpy beaks against glass patio door like. "HEY. WHERE FOOD??" Anyway. 
> 
> Back to the story. This slow burn story. The slowest of burns. Guess what happens next week? Guess.


	17. Chapter 17

They drive back to Samwell the next day.

They wait until midday to leave but the roads are still icy and the sky is grey and intermittent snowfall shadows them from slushy, one-lane back roads to the slick, salted highway.

Nursey drives for the first two hours while Dex sleeps, then they stop for gas, swap places, and Nursey tries unsuccessfully to nap for another hour or so.

They’re passing through Portland when he gives up and Dex says, suspiciously casual, “you want to play some music?”

Nursey raises an eyebrow at him.

“Only if you’re going to sing with me.”

Dex grins.

By the time they hit the Maine/New Hampshire line they’re both hoarse and hungry. They stop for food just past the bridge, switch drivers again, and Dex, holding Nursey’s phone, aux cable tangled distractedly around his wrist and between his fingers says: “Do you want me to play some of _your_ music?”

“My music,” Nursey repeats.

“Yeah. Like. You don’t need to distract me anymore or whatever. I’m okay.”

That seems fair.

Nursey requests some Ibeyi first, then Childish Gambino, then FKA Twigs. He mixes it up with some Joanne Cash, Michael Burks, and Nina Simone, before switching gears entirely to The National.

He requests _Slow Show_ specifically, immediately regrets his life choices, and then stares studiously out the front window, refusing to look at Dex, for the following three minutes and fifty seconds through lyrics like:

_A little more stupid, a little more scared_

_Every minute, more unprepared_

and

_I wanna hurry home to you_

_Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up_

_So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain_

_God, I'm very, very frightened, I'll overdo it_

When he does hazard a glance at Dex, his face is turned away, looking out the passenger window, and Nursey can’t tell if the back of his neck is slightly pinker than normal or not.

Nursey decides he’s done with potentially damning lyrics for the day. He asks Dex to find Explosions in the Sky and select the entire _The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place_ album to play.

He waits several minutes, until the final reverberations of _Six Days at the Bottom of the Ocean_ are thrumming through the speakers to say:

“I might have done something stupid.”

Dex shifts his whole body when he turns to look at him.

“What?”

Nursey opens his mouth and then closes it again.

He wonders if maybe Dex will forget he said something if he just…stays silent.

“Nurse,” Dex says.

“It’s not—nothing bad. Nothing that will affect the team.”

“Okay,” Dex says. “But will it affect you?”

Nursey swallows. “We don’t actually have to talk about it. I don’t know why I said anything. It’s personal shit.”

“I fucking cried on you yesterday,” Dex says. “I think we’re at the point where you can tell me personal shit.”

It sounds like maybe Dex is saying _I want to hear your personal shit._

Wouldn’t that be something.

“My adoption was closed,” Nursey says. “Which means my birth parents didn’t have any contact with me once it was finalized. In a closed adoption, once a kid turns 18, they can contact the agency and request information and like, there’s this reunion registry thing? Where biological family members can find each other.”

He hasn’t told anyone this.

Dex’s fingers, worrying absently at the aux cable, go still.

“Okay?”

“So when I turned 18, I did all that shit. Except after a few weeks, nothing turned up. And so. I ordered the 23 and Me thing. Where you like. Spit in the tube and send it off and they tell you all about your genetics but also have this massive database that can connect you with people who are related to you.”

“Okay,” Dex says again. He turns the volume down.

“But I just kept the box. Without opening it. For like a month. Except then, four days ago, the day you showed up, I woke up that morning and just. Did it. Walked the test down to the post office and sent it. And then freaked out and got drunk, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Nursey lapses into silence.

He turns on the windshield wipers because it’s started snowing again.

“I don’t—how is that stupid?” Dex asks. It’s tentative, which is strange because Nursey can’t ever remember a time when Dex has ever been tentative.

“Because I think I waited so long for a reason. And now I’m afraid to get the results back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Never mind.”

“Why did you want to contact your birth family anyway?” Dex asks.

Nursey knows what Dex is doing.

“My therapist would probably say I was looking for validation I wasn’t receiving from my parents.”

“I didn’t ask for your therapist’s opinion.”

“Fuck you.”

He says it so quietly, so self-consciously, that Dex doesn’t respond.

Nursey sighs. “I’m probably just setting myself up for an even bigger letdown,” he admits. “Like. Whoever my biological parents are, they haven’t updated their contact information with the agency in over a decade. They haven’t registered online. Clearly they don’t want me to find them and they never wanted me in the first place so—“

Dex’s hand circles Nursey’s right wrist, tugging until he lets go of the steering wheel.

“I don’t know much about adoption,” Dex says, forcing his fingers between Nursey’s. “But I’m pretty sure that’s a huge oversimplification. And like. This shit takes time. It’s only been a couple months.”

“What if I _do_ find them and they don’t care, though? What if they’re awful? What if they want nothing to do with me?”

And that’s the crux of it.

That’s why he waited so long to spit in the stupid tube.

What if knowing is worse than not-knowing?

“Then fuck ‘em,” Dex says easily. “There are a shit ton of other people who do care. That want you. That love you.”

He stumbles a little over the last sentence, fingers curling a little, nails scratching a little, against the back of Nursey’s hand.

“You’re—worth that. Being wanted. Loved. And if they’ve got shit for brains and can’t see it, or aren’t willing to take the time and figure it out, then. Fuck ‘em.”

The speakers take over the following silence: the last bars of _Memorial_ fading into the first isolated chords of _Your Hand in Mine._

He laughs, maybe a little hysterically.

“So,” Nursey says, because it’s more than time for a subject change. “I’ve noticed we’ve started holding hands.”

“No,” Dex says.

Nursey glances at their fingers, linked together and resting on the center console.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“We’re not talking about it,” Dex says.

“I mean. We are. Kind of. Right now. And we probably should, like—“

“No talking,” Dex says. “If you’re holding my hand you’re not allowed to talk about the fact that you’re holding my hand.”

And well. That’s an easy choice to make.

They lapse into silence for the rest of the drive—a quiet filled with the lull of windshield wipers and the soft acoustic ebb and flow of _The Wilderness_.

Dex doesn’t let go of his hand until they park in the student garage.

***

Things go to shit the next day.

They’re fine that night, through a defrosted Bitty-casserole for dinner and two episodes of Fixer Upper where they sit kind of far apart on the couch, all things considered, and then Dex goes to bed early. But Dex still initiates their knock-through-the-wall routine, so that’s okay.

The following morning, though, Nursey can’t find Dex.

There’s no answer when he taps on Dex’s door at 9am, so Nursey runs alone, eats breakfast alone, and then, after waiting an awkward amount of time in the common room, decides to go into town for groceries. It will be another day before the dining hall opens for spring semester and the options in the Haus kitchen are pretty much down to eggs and protein powder.

He picks up KD and chicken salad fixings, feeling a little nostalgic.

Except then he goes home and fills up the refrigerator and…there’s still no Dex. And his phone stays silent. And he’s just. A little lost.

Because he basically bared his soul the day before. Told Dex how messed up he was over feeling abandoned and then Dex—

Whatever.

He makes dinner by himself.

At 7pm, he decides the day is a wash and goes upstairs to lay on his bed and listen to too-loud music. Except then Pandora elects to play Explosions in the Sky and he hears Dex’s door open in the hall and he forgets, for a minute, that he’s angry.

He’s remembered by the time he’s standing in Dex’s room, but by then it’s too late.

“Hey,” he says, feeling a little off-balance. “Can you talk?”

“Since I was two.”

Dex is sort of mussed and breathless, T-shirt dirty, cheeks pink, hands tucked under his arms. He smells like sweat and gasoline and outside _._ He’s looking in his closet, not at Nursey.

“Okay, asshole,” Nursey says. “I meant can you talk right now?”

“Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth?”

“Unfortunately,” he grits out.

Dex still doesn’t look at him.

“You know what, never mind.”

“ _What?_ ” Dex says, exasperated, shutting his closet door.

“Nothing,” Nursey says again.

“Well obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t have decided to grace me with your presence.”

Nursey opens his mouth to argue because _what the fuck_ , Dex is the one who’s been avoiding _him_ , but—

He exhales.

“No,” he says. “I can’t do this with you tonight. So I’m just. I’m going to go.”

Dex’s obstinate expression wavers.

“What? You can’t do what?”

“Pretend I hate you. Or. Whatever it is that we do. Pretend we don’t care. Because I do. Even if you don’t. And I’m just so tired of—“

Dex kisses him.

Well.

There are things that happen leading up to it.

Like Dex closing the space between them and pushing him up against the door and wrapping one of his big, calloused hands around Nursey’s jaw.

But the point is: Dex kisses him.

It’s quick and rough and more of an argument than a gesture of affection but.

It’s still a kiss.

“I fucking care,” Dex snaps.

“Oh,” Nursey says. “Well. Okay. Good.”

He doesn’t know where to go from here.

Luckily, Dex does.

The second kiss is better.

The second kiss is:

Soft. Hesitant. Chaste.

It is:

Gentle. Cautious. Achingly sweet.

The kiss is full of adjectives that do not apply to Dex. Full of adjectives that are, in fact, the opposite of Dex.

And yet.

The kiss is very, very, Dex.

The third and fourth and fifth kiss sort of merge together and then Dex is dropping his forehead to Nursey’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“

“If you’re apologizing for kissing me—“

“I’m _not_. I’m apologizing for being a dick _before_ kissing you.”

“Oh. Well, carry on then.”

“Sorry,” he repeats.

“Wow. Solid apology, Pointdexter. A+ work.”

“Now who’s being a dick?”

Nursey grins.

“Why have you been avoiding me all day?” he asks.

Dex straightens. “I _haven’t_. I was working. And then I came home and all the lights were off and you were in your room avoiding me.”

“Oh.”

It occurs to Nursey that they’re both idiots.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had to work? I was wondering where you were all day.”

“I…didn’t know you would care? And I didn’t want to be like. Clingy or whatever. I figured you’d want some space.”

“Why would I need space?

“Because you just spent the last _four days_ with me?”

“Yeah, it was great.”

“Nurse.”

“Dex.”

“I don’t want you to get tired of me,” Dex says quietly.

“Not going to happen. And if I need space, I’ll tell you. So. Maybe don’t assume what I want next time? Because I would have rather spent my afternoon with you.”

Dex rolls his eyes, but he sways forward a little, leaving them chest to chest.“I spent my afternoon at the garage.”

“I like the garage. I could have hung out there. Watched you work.”

The last sentence comes out a little more suggestive than he intended. He clears his throat before Dex can comment on it. “I mean. Are _you_ tired of _me_?”

“No.”

“Right. Good.”

They just stand there, braced against each other, breathing in each other’s second-hand air for a moment.

“So,” Nursey says lowly. “I can’t help but notice that we’re kissing, now. Are we allowed to talk about that?”

“No.”

“Same rules as hand-holding apply? If we’re kissing, we’re not talking about the kissing?”

“Yes,” Dex grits out.

“Well technically we’re not _currently_ ki—“

Ah. But apparently they are.

He lets it happen.

And he lets it keep happening until Dex has him pushed against the door again, mouth hot and wet, hands uncertain but charmingly desperate as they pull at his shirt.

Nursey grins into the kiss, leaning away so they can both take a breath. “You have no idea what you’re doing, huh?”

Dex jerks back, the flush on his neck creeping quickly into his cheeks.

“Fuck you.”

“No, I mean. That came out wrong. You haven’t done this before, though, have you?”

It’s less of a shock than it should be, probably, considering the way Dex looks. Yes, he’s attractive, but it’s hard to imagine him being vulnerable enough to kiss someone.

Well.

Someone other than Nursey.

And isn’t that thrilling.

“No,” Dex confirms grudgingly. And then: “Try not to look so happy about it, asshole.”

“Sorry,” Nursey says.

He’s not sorry.

“I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. Its not like you’re bad at it or anything—“

“Oh _thanks_ ,”

“Just. Slow down. We’ve got time.”

Dex looks like he doesn’t believe him.

“Also, as hot as you manhandling me is, I have a doorknob in my back right now which isn’t the most comfortable.”

“Well, I’ve got a bed,” Dex says, like it’s Nursey’s fault they aren’t there already.

Dex is so infuriating.

Nursey pulls him over to it, and then has to stop Dex from climbing directly into his lap.

“We don’t have to like—we can go slow.”

“No,” Dex says, and then bites his lip. “I want—“ he stalls out, shifting, his knees butting against Nursey’s thigh, fingers still curled in the hem of Nursey’s shirt.

“I _want_ ,” he repeats.

“Okay,” Nursey says, and he maybe has to close his eyes for a minute because he doesn’t know if he can get the next few sentences out with Dex looking at him like that.

He needs to, though.

“Okay,” Nursey says again. “But I think this is something we should talk about. Even if its just in terms of like. _What_ we want. And if we _can’t_ talk about it we probably shouldn’t do it.”

Dex doesn’t move. But he doesn’t say anything either.

Nursey opens his eyes.

Dex’s head is ducked, eyes on his hands—the black edges around his nails. Nursey can see Dex’s pulse jumping in his throat. He wants to put his mouth over it, but that would sort of negate everything he just said.

“I don’t know,” Dex says finally. “But I fucking—I want to touch you _all_ the time. Have been. Wanting. So. There’s that.”

“Well,” Nurse says. “Okay.”

And he can see exactly how this might go. He’d lean over and press Dex back against the pillows, pull his shirt up and his jeans down and lick the dried sweat off his skin.

Dex would let him.

Dex would probably let him do just about anything right now.

But he also knows that’s a very, _very_ bad idea.

“Full disclosure,” Nursey says. “I don’t think we should have sex.”

“What,” Dex says. “Why?” His expression goes immediately calculating. “How are you defining sex?”

“Orgasms.”

“ _What?”_ he repeats, whinier this time. “ _Why_?”

Nursey wants to say: _because we’ve barely figured out how to be friends and I don’t want to fuck that up. Because you’re in mourning, or something like it. Because I’m scared._

Instead, he says: “Because, I’m not ready for that. I want to. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. Just not yet.”

“Oh,” Dex says. “Sorry. Should I not have—“

He starts to sit up

“No. No, kissing is good. And. I’d really like to take your shirt off. So I can kiss more of you. Would that be cool?”

Dex swallows.

“I haven’t taken a shower yet.”

“I know,” Nursey says darkly.

Dex flushes further. “Will you take _your_ shirt off?” he asks.

“You realize,” Nursey says conversationally, “that we’re talking about kissing, right? That thing you said we couldn’t talk about? And you’re participating.”

“Shut up. Fine. We can talk about kissing. Will you take your shirt off too?”

Nursey grins, hooking his fingers into the back of the shirt in question. He pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. “Sure.”

Dex seems a little frozen, so Nursey goes ahead and tugs off Dex’s shirt too, because he’s helpful like that.

And then he pauses, trailing his fingers over Dex’s darkly freckled shoulders, shadowed and beautiful and washed in sepia from the fairy lights on the bookshelf. He thumbs the softer, paler, skin on the inside of Dex’s biceps, and then wraps his fingers around Dex’s wrists, pulling his hands into the space between them.

He ducks to press a kiss to each of Dex’s palms, grinning at the resulting wake of goosebumps that creep up his forearms, and then laces their fingers together.

“Does that mean we can talk about hand holding now, too?” Nursey asks innocently.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Dex says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Early chapter because I don't know if I'll have a free minute tomorrow. I'm road-tripping home Friday after class for Thanksgiving break and then exams are the following week! AH! 
> 
> If you're unfamiliar, qualifying exams for English PhD students are essentially 3 days, 8 hours per day, of timed essay-writing, the content of which comes from any of the 200ish texts on their book list (my examination fields are: book history/sociology of texts, 20/21 century American Literature, and Feminist/Queer theory). My committee members will all independently grade my responses, then confer to decide if I've passed or not. Eeep.
> 
> I'll still be posting chapters over the next two weeks, but don't be surprised if I'm pretty absent on Tumblr and don't answer many comments. I'm just so overwhelmed with prep work at the moment!
> 
> But seriously, yall. Thanks for all the comments. I love them. I go back and read them when I'm feeling stressed. Bless you.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Dex recounts memories of abuse

William Poindexter’s first crush was Cecille Kierne in the first grade. She had brown eyes, short curly hair, and could throw a dodgeball with vicious accuracy. She liked the color purple, arm wrestling, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of butterflies.

Dex’s second crush was Jason Maverick in the fourth grade. He was the center on Dex’s mite hockey team: blue eyes, soft hands, and an even softer voice. Quiet and kind, he was taller than Dex but always seemed to take up less space. Sometimes he would share his before-practice snacks.

Dex’s third crush was Emily Greenspan and it lasted through both seventh and eighth grades. Everyone called her Spanner. Spanner had hazel eyes, a dirty blonde mohawk, an even dirtier mouth, and a wicked left hook. She played defense, the only girl on Dex’s bantam hockey team, and she wore pink laces on her skates so no one would forget it. Spanner was the first time Dex ever looked at someone and thought: _Oh. I want to kiss you._ His crush on her lasted right up until he moved to a Midget team freshman year of high school and met Spanner’s older brother.

Dex’s fourth crush was Aaron Greenspan. The team called him Greenie. He was a lot like Spanner—hazel eyes, olive skin, gold-brown hair and a predilection for violence. But Greenie was bigger. Leaner. Louder. He was two years older than Dex and called him _Kid_ , which Dex hated, but he also sat next to him on the bus and didn’t pull away when Dex leaned against his shoulder, which Dex liked. Greenie would help him sort through the Lost and Found at various rinks to steal—“commandeer” he’d called it—new equipment for Dex, and he carried around a jar of peanut butter in his hockey bag with a spoon he didn’t mind sharing. Dex had a lot of fraught feelings about that shared spoon.

He never acted on any of his crushes, male or female. At first it was because he was too young and too shy to do anything but pine from afar. Later, it was because he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t date boys because his father was a homophobic asshole. But he couldn’t date girls either because dating necessitated time and money and possibly nudity and _talking_ and Dex couldn’t facilitate any of those things. He had no time and no money and secrets he wasn’t willing to share—some of them visible under his clothes. Being alone was both safer and easier.

So. No dating.

His father never suspected he was gay. Or liked boys as well as girls, so bisexual? Pansexual? Whatever he is, his father never knew. William Poindexter Senior had ideas about what _those kinds of boys_ looked like and with his lean muscle and shaved head and beat-up thrift-store clothes, Dex didn’t fit any of them.

He’d told Maura when he was sixteen because if there was anyone in the family it was safe to tell, it was her, and he’d wanted to tell _someone_.

It was a Friday in July. Both Uncle Bruce and Maura had docked at Port Winter to offload their catches and then the two crews had met up at a bar. Maura bought Dex his first beer and within two minutes of her putting it in his hand he’d quietly said, “I think I like boys the same way you like girls.”

She’d turned her hat around backward and leaned her chin on her fist and said:

“Well isn’t that something. You want to tell me about it?”

He didn’t.

“You planning on telling other folks?” she asked.

They both knew that what she meant was: _are you planning to tell your father?_

“No.” He’d said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

She’d finished her beer before speaking again.

“You tell me if you do. I’ll make sure nobody’s a dick about it.” She looked thoughtful. “Well. I can’t promise that. But I can promise that if they _are_ a dick about it they’ll be real sorry afterward.”

He’d appreciated it then and he appreciates it now.

The only difference is he hadn’t actually thought he’d ever need to take her up on the offer. He’d always planned to turn 18 and get the hell out of Port Marta and maybe, years later, find a girl to marry because regardless of where he ended up in the world, that was the safest, _the most normal_ , option.

Now, though.

Well.

William Poindexter’s fifth crush is Derek Malik Nurse and the word _crush_ feels woefully inadequate. Derek Malik Nurse has eyes that defy the label of a single color, a deep laugh, and a one-dimpled smile. He likes plants and poetry and Dex, apparently. He is strong and gentle, infuriating, but kind, and words do not suit the things that Dex feels about him.

He is also, currently, in Dex’s bed.

They’re sort of awkwardly tangled, because twin beds are not meant to house two adult, or nearly adult, men. Dex isn’t really sure how they got here. How he went from exhaustion and uncertainty to slow kisses and warm skin.

It is a strange, tenuous, place to exist: one that falls somewhere between wanting what he can’t have and having what he shouldn’t want and he doesn’t know how to navigate it.

Nursey is awake, more on top of him than next to him, ear pressed to the center of his chest, tracing gentle, barely-there, fingertips over Dex’s rose tattoo.

Dex’s arms are loosely wrapped around him, deceptively casual, hands moving lazily up and down the broad expanse of Nursey’s back and while he was really hoping for sex, this is nice too. Nursey probably has the most beautiful shoulder blades in existence, which he realizes is an entirely ridiculous thing to fixate on but it’s also _true._

His licks his lips, tender and chapped, and tries to focus.

“So,” he says. “About earlier.”

“Earlier?” Nursey says.

“Um. When you first came in talk to me. Was there—what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh. I want to get Piper a telescope. But I wanted to make sure it was okay first. Like, I wouldn’t be stepping on any toes? And I’ll need your uncle’s address.”

“A telescope,” Dex repeats.

“Yeah. She asked for one for Christmas because she wants to be—“

“An astronaut. I know. But Nursey, that’s—a telescope is a lot.”

Nursey shifts, enough to meet his eyes, beseeching.

“I wouldn’t get like a crazy fancy one. Just a starter one. Something basic but nice quality. Besides. I owe her. She snuck these into my bag.”

He fishes in his back pocket and sets them just below Dex’s collarbone:

Matching sparkly claw clips.

From Piper, a significant gift.

Dex touches the glittery wing of one of them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. I’ll get you the address.”

Pleased, Nursey returns his treasure to his pocket, then flops back onto Dex’s chest.

He presses an absent kiss to Dex’s sternum and then goes back to tracing Dex’s tattoo.

Dex thinks about it: the fact that Nursey had apparently been upset over not knowing where Dex was all day. That he would rather spend the afternoon keeping Dex company at the garage than being alone. That while Nursey _was_ alone, he was thinking about Dex’s cousin. Understanding the importance of her gift. Coming up with a way to encouraging her huge, ridiculous, dreams. Wanting to make her happy.

He thinks about it: the way Nursey looks at him between kisses.

Like he’s exceptional. Special. Worthy of awe.

_He needs to know_ , Dex thinks. _He needs to know exactly what he’s getting into._

Exactly what Dex comes from.

He reaches out and pushes Nursey’s fingers down, stark against the winter-pale skin of his ribcage, to the space under his arm. He presses their hands flat to cup the date inked there over his ribs.

“You asked about this, before. February eleventh.”

Nursey props himself up with his opposite elbow, just a few inches, enough to meet Dex’s eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I do now.”

“Okay.”

Dex takes a slow breath.

“February eleventh,” he says. “Was the day I fought back.”

It’s a good start, but he’d been so focused on getting the initial sentence out that now he stalls, uncertain how to backtrack.

Nursey waits.

“I’d come home from a hockey game late. Around 11pm. One of the other guys dropped me off. My stepmother was at her parent’s—her mom was real sick then— and the girls were asleep. Dad was up. Drunk. Pissed about something. I didn’t even mean to, really. I never had before. But he swung at me and I just—I was still so keyed up from the game. I’d nearly fought a defender that night and it was like. Automatic, maybe. To stop him. To _make_ him stop. It hadn’t ever occurred to me up until then that I’d gotten bigger than him, stronger than him. I didn’t realize I _could_ fight back until I caught his fist.”

“Tell me you beat the shit out of him.”

Dex laughs without humor.

“Can’t do that. I might have, but as soon as I got a punch in he broke a bottle of scotch over my head and once I’d passed out he fucked up my ribs for good measure. Steel-toed boots, you know.”

He pushes harder at Nurse’s hand. Against the rib that had taken the longest to heal.

“This one here was the worst. Hurt every time I breathed. That’s why I got the tattoo there.”

“What happened? After.”  
“He left me in the kitchen. Went to go buy more scotch. He was at the liquor store when the cops arrested him. Ashley—my little sister—she called 911. She woke up and thought dad had killed me.”

Nursey doesn’t say anything but the muscles in his back have gone taught under Dex’s left hand.

After several long seconds of silence, Nursey kneels up, slides his hands down to bracket Dex’s waist, and leans forward, head ducked, to press his mouth—gentle, _so fucking gentle_ —to the arc of Dex’s ribcage, following the inked line under his arm with a slow train of kisses.

When he sits back up, thumbs moving, restless, against the hollowed skin above Dex’s hips, he looks furious in a way Dex would never have expected considering the soft kindness of his actions.

“Where else?” Nurse asks.

“What?” It comes out a little breathless, maybe.

“Where else did he hurt you?” Nurse ducks and touches his lips, briefly, to the scar on Dex’s chin. “Here, right?”

And Dex doesn’t know if he’s going to survive this. Whatever it is.

“Fuck you,” he says, completely devoid of heat, “I can’t—I don’t know what to do when you’re being like this.”

“Being like this,” Nursey repeats. His mouth curves up a little on one side. He kisses Dex’s chin again. “Being nice? I’m always nice to you. Or, recently, anyway.”

“No. Just. Being all—gentle. I’m not fucking breakable.”

It doesn’t sound true, the cracked way he says it, but Nursey’s eyebrows go serious and pinched.

“I know you’re not. Obviously. You’re six-two, 180 pounds. Strong enough to do all kinds of hot mechanic shit.”

He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“In a year or two you’ll probably be one of the best up and coming defensemen in the NHL. And you did it all yourself. Without the help you should have had. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

One of his hands slides up to splay, palm down, over the center of Dex’s chest.

“But strong people need gentleness too, sometimes.”

Dex doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know if he can without embarrassing himself.

Instead, he points to the crown of his head, above his temple and a little to the left.

“Here.” he says.

It takes Nurse a second.

And then he grins, both hands moving to cup Dex’s jaw, to tip Dex’s head forward so Nurse can press his mouth to the soft bristly hair next to Dex’s finger. He looks down, ducking a little to meet Dex’s eyes, uncertain.

“There?”

“Yeah,” Dex agrees.

“Where else?” Nursey asks.

***

Bitty arrives the following morning at 10am.

Nursey is on a post-run walk around the lake and Dex is freshly showered, vacuuming the rug in his room—they’d ended up watching a movie the night before and there might have been a popcorn fight.

Bitty comes up the stairs, hauling his rolling suitcase behind him, as Dex turns off the vacuum.

“Hey!”

Bitty stops in Dex’s open door. “How did things go?”

“Good,” he says. “I’m emancipated. So.”

Bitty drops his things and tackles him in a hug.

Bitty still has snow on his shoulders and in his hair.

He smells like airplane and cold air.

“And everything was okay with your family?” Bitty asks, squeezing him again. “Did you have a good visit?”

“Yeah. It was good. Nursey actually went with me.”

Bitty’s arms go slack. He takes a step back.

“What?”

“I uh, ended up spending Christmas in New York with Nursey? And then he drove me home for court and stayed with me there a few days before we came back.”

Bitty’s eyes are very, very, wide.

“And how did _that_ go?”

Dex shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at his bare feet, knowing he can’t do anything about the inevitable blush.

“Good.”

“Good,” Bitty repeats.

He maybe sounds a little strangled.

“Are you two…?”

Dex shrugs.

He doesn’t know what they are.

“He likes spending time with me,” Dex says.

For such an innocuous observation, the sentence—the truth of it— is weighty.

“Okay?”

Bitty doesn’t understand.

“It’s just. He likes to spend time with me. Not out of obligation or because he’s going to get something out of it. Just because of me. I think.”

And now Bitty is looking a little damp around the eyes.

“Honey, you know that’s not just Nursey, right?” he asks.

“What do mean?” Dex says blankly.

“Why do you think I tell you whenever I’m planning to bake something?”

“Because I’m the only one who knows how to follow directions?”

“Okay, true. But that’s not the real reason.”

Dex continues to look at him blankly.

“I like your company,” Bitty says slowly. “I like _you_. I’d rather spend time with you than be alone.”

“Oh,” Dex says.

And, objectively, that makes sense, but—

“And why do you think Shitty keeps finding things in his room that need fixing?” Bitty continues. “Why do you think Jack invites you to run with him? Or Chowder offers to stay late and practice with you? Or Rans and Holster try to help you with your homework?”

“Because,” Dex says. “Because—I’m good at fixing things. And I’m the top performing defensive player. I have to stay in shape and keep my grades up. And they want to make sure I can _keep_ playing so—“

“Oh sweetheart,” Bitty says, touching his elbow. “No. We don’t care about you because of the things you do. Or because we want something from you. We care about you because you’re _you_. Because you’re smart and thoughtful and you work so hard—whether its at hockey or your homework or just…trying to be a better person. I watched Shitty intentionally pull his desk drawer out of alignment two weeks ago so he could ask you how your day was going and offer you a brownie while you were there fixing it. And he was so disappointed you didn’t take one, by the way. He’d asked me to make them special.”

Dex doesn’t know what to do with this information.

He goes for the easiest response: “I—I thought he was trying to get me high?”

“Well. That’s a fair concern with brownies in Shitty’s room, but he wouldn’t give you a weed brownie without telling you. The _point_ is that we love you. You. Period. And that’s not just Nursey. That’s all of us.”

“Oh.”

“And maybe Nursey loves you a little _different_ from the rest of us,” Bitty muses, raising his eyebrows pointedly, “but that’s none of my business.”

Dex thinks he might need to sit down.

“Honey?” Bitty says. “Did I break you? Do you need some time alone? Or would you like to come help me make some pie? I wanted to have some waiting for the rest of the team this afternoon.”

“Pie,” Dex says. Because that’s simple and uncomplicated and also he’s pretty hungry.

“Can we make a chocolate pecan one?” Dex asks.

“That’s Nursey’s favorite,” Bitty observes casually.

Dex elects not to say anything.

Bitty sighs.

“Sure,” he says, “let’s make a chocolate pecan pie. Let me drop off my stuff and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He retrieves his things from the ground and heads off down the hall. “Don’t forget to wash your hands!”

Dex goes downstairs and washes his hands.

He doesn’t wait for the water to warm up.

He lets the winter chill of it splash sharp and shocking across his wrists.

_We love you,_ Bitty said.

Dex glances at the calendar, where Bitty has penciled in everyone’s estimated arrival times through the day. Next to the calendar there is a handful of instant polaroid pictures Nursey had taken with his stupid hipster camera the month before. None of the pictures are very good. But they kind of are anyway. Because it’s the team. All of them. Including Dex. Blurry and yelling and laughing and fighting and squished onto the couch together and—

Maybe that’s love.

He’d always thought the word love was dangerous: a thing more often used for coercion or justification than romance, and even if it was used kindly it was only kind until it was taken away.

But this sort of love—

This doesn’t feel nearly as dangerous.

Still just as scary, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's log:
> 
> Exams start Monday. Please forgive me as I continue to ignore comments (and messages on tumblr--sorry!). The next update will come from within The Week of Reckoning itself and then I'll actually have a life/free time again until spring semester starts. Ahh! Thanks for all the support, y'all. :)


	19. Chapter 19

Derek Malik Nurse’s first crush was Aladdin. He was four, which he feels is important to emphasize when his mother gleefully shares this information at dinner parties. And sure, Aladdin was an animated character, but he was cute and kind-hearted and had a flying magic carpet. All good qualities in a prospective partner, really.

Nursey’s second crush was Adam Pope. Nursey was six. Adam was eight. Adam had white-blonde hair and big blue eyes and he lived two floors below him at the Manhattan house. Their moms enjoyed taking them on “play dates” every weekend which were really just coffee dates for their mothers at handy playgrounds or children's museums. Nursey and Adam usually got in trouble and it was usually Adam’s fault because he was older and kind of bossy. But Adam was also sweet. He would help boost Nursey into trees if he couldn’t reach the bottom branches. He’d help him read instructions at the experiment lab in the science museum. He’d kiss Nursey’s skinned knees and give him piggy-back rides and when they had sleepovers he didn’t make fun of Nursey’s favorite stuffed cat. Adam moved to California two days before Nursey’s seventh birthday. He’d cried.

Nursey’s third crush was Richard West. Richard was a boy in his second-grade class with dark center-parted hair and a permanently serious expression, who spent the first day of school studiously raising his hand every time the teacher asked a question. It was a short-lived crush, however, because the next day Nursey sat with Richard at lunch and Richard said Harry Potter was stupid. Which. Obviously that was unforgivable.

Nursey’s fourth crush was Yuri Takada. Yuri had black hair and a wide smile and he’d been sitting on the opposite side of Nursey when Richard West said Harry Potter was stupid. Yuri called Richard an “ugly muggle” and Nursey fell briefly in love. _Briefly_ , because a week later, Yuri said soccer was better than hockey which was nearly as unforgivable as calling Harry Potter stupid.

Nursey’s fifth and sixth and seventh and, well all of his subsequent crushes, followed the same pattern. He’d see a cute boy. He’d like a cute boy. And then, inevitably, he’d find something wrong with them. His mother would sigh fondly over his proclamations each week that he’d found _the one_ , and then soothe him through the inevitable 5-minute crisis a few days later after realizing that, no, maybe Benedict Ainsworth was _not_ “the one,” maybe he was just a stupid straight boy with a nice accent and swoop-y hair which masked the fact that he was a massive dick.

Nursey never thought to hide his attractions. He wasn’t afraid to tell his parents he wanted to marry Aladdin or that he thought Adam Pope was the prettiest boy in the world. He has a pair of gay uncles and one of his mom’s best friends is a lesbian and he’s been going to pride events dressed in rainbows since before he can remember. He didn’t even realize that there were people—places—in the world who had a problem with queer people until halfway through elementary school. He knows now that’s a privilege a lot of kids don’t have. That most gay black thirteen-year-olds don’t get to hold hands with their middle school crushes in the hallways without fear.

But this privilege, the lack of fear, the confidence in his family’s support, ensured his crush-related tendencies continued through high school, through moving to Samwell, through classroom flirtations and various hockey rosters and philanthropy events and dorm parties. Most of the time, his crushes turn out to be straight. But the sheer volume of them still means that Nursey has kissed a lot of boys. He hasn’t ever seriously dated one, though. He’d decided, the summer before senior year, that he was going to change that. He was going to focus on hockey. No flirtations in stairwells. No makeouts in the stacks. When he went to college, he would date properly and have a real relationship. But senior year would be about hockey.

And then, two days before the semester started, he met William Poindexter.

Derek Malik Nurse’s 100th-something crush is William Poindexter. It lasts about five minutes. Because as attractive as he is, as compellingly sharp-edged and foul-mouthed and viciously pretty as he is, William Poindexter is an asshole. He’s an asshole teammate, though, so Nursey plays nice. And he doesn’t have any intention of—of _doing_ anything with Dex aside from playing good hockey and maybe trying to educate him a little. Except.

Except then one night Nursey gets sad and drunk and dances with Dex.

Except, somehow, he ends up shaving Dex’s head.

And inviting him home.

And holding his hand.

And kissing him.

And now, Derek Malik Nurse is sitting on his bed, knees tucked to his chest, having a very small crisis. Because not only has he _returned_ to a crush for the first time in his life—not only has he maintained interest in the same person for _weeks (months?)_ —but he’s a little afraid that the word “crush” is no longer adequate for the whole. Dex. Situation.  
Entertaining other, perhaps more apt, words is something he’s not willing to do yet.

Because it’s been weeks. Close to a month, even, since their first, volatile kiss. It’s been weeks of lingering fingers on shoulders and wrists and lower backs. Weeks of ducked heads and nudged under-the-table feet and too-wide grins on the bench and _sustained eye contact._ Which he didn’t even know was a thing for him until now but _it sure as hell definitely is._

It’s been weeks of Nursey slipping into Dex’s single room at night and listening to Bon Iver and The Oh Hellos and Hozier and The Head and the Heart. Weeks of slow kisses with acoustic accompaniment. Of building piano crescendos, soft harmonies, and lingering guitar chords. Weeks of fighting off sleep in the heat of tangled limbs, of mouths against temples and ears on chests and thumbs rubbing over knuckles. Weeks of whispered conversations under the glow of fairy lights.

Weeks of leaving at midnight.

Returning to his own room.

Pressing his back to the wall that separates them.

Falling asleep alone.

It’s been _weeks._

And Dex won’t talk about it.

He’ll talk. About other things. Important things, even. Which Nursey should probably be happy about. But any time Nursey tries to talk about _them_. About—whatever the hell they’re doing and if maybe they can tell other people about it. If maybe, one night, Nursey could _stay_ —Dex gets still and quiet or changes the subject or kisses him, which. That’s hard to combat.

So Nursey takes the quiet moments, the secret affection and the lingering touches and he tries to be cautious. He doesn’t know how to, though, because he’s in uncharted territory.

It’s strange, to know someone so intimately. To be so familiar with someone else’s body: Its likes and dislikes, its scars and its secrets, but to still be so uncertain about the person inside it. To know someone but not know them.

He realizes, sitting in his bed with swollen lips and the smell of Dex pressed into his t-shirt, that he needs to talk to his mom.

Except he hasn’t talked to his mom about a boy in over a year and he doesn’t even know where his parents _are_ right now. Metaphorically or geographically.

He decides to send a text, agonizes over what to say, and then finally sends: “hey, are you free to talk?”

Two minutes later, without a response, he does what any self-respecting teenager with too many emotions would do and gets spectacularly drunk.

It’s easy enough to facilitate. Samwell’s men’s and women’s hockey teams had won their games the night before and there’s a dorm party in full swing in the common room. He and Dex had snuck away but then Dex had cited an early morning working at the garage the following day and kicked him out to sleep. So Nursey goes downstairs and finds some tequila.

He’s not in the mood for dancing and, after a few shots, glaring broadly at all the fun that’s being had, he ends up just taking the bottle back to his room. An unwise choice because Chowder notices him skulking off and tries to talk to him all concerned with his eyebrows and his big gentle hands and Nursey just.

Can’t.

He tucks himself into bed, pulling the duvet over his head to block out Chowder’s quiet “is there anything I can do?” and returns his attention to the tequila.

He checks his phone—nothing from his mom—takes another sip, and then shoves on his headphones and pulls up his playlist of Dex’s favorite songs because if he’s going to be pathetic he’s going to do it _really fucking thoroughly_.

Some amount of minutes later—probably not that many because he’s just uncomfortably warm in his duvet-tent rather than actively suffocating—someone slams the door to his room.

Chowder doesn’t slam doors.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Dex does, though.

Dex also rudely pulls apart duvet-tents, apparently.

And steals alcohol.

“Thought you were sleeping,” Nursey says, pushing down the headphones.

It sounds accusatory.

Maybe it is.

He realizes he might be a little belligerent.

Dex, delightfully furious, shirtless, and freckled, gestures wordlessly at him with the tequila bottle.

“I don’t—you were _fine_ when you left my room. Why are you like this? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Well Chowder was worried enough he came and woke me up so obviously _something_ happened.”

“I thought you had to work tomorrow,” Nursey says. “Thought you needed to sleep.”

“I _do._ Which is why you need to tell me _what the hell is the matter_ so we can fix it and I can go back to bed.”

That’s good. Sweet, even. Dex wanting to help. Wanting to fix whatever is wrong. But Nursey doesn’t even really know what _is_ wrong, he just knows he wants to talk to his mom and he wants to hold hands with his boyfriend. And he wants to know if he even _has_ a fucking boyfriend—

Nursey sniffs.

“Hey,” Dex says.

He sets the bottle on the desk, dropping his voice considerably.

“Okay. I’m sorry. You’re upset. I didn’t—can you just tell me what’s wrong?”

“You always make me leave,” he says.

He doesn’t mean to say it, but. Hey. Tequila.

It comes out embarrassingly plaintive.

“What?”

“And you won’t talk to me. When I try. And I texted my mom because I don’t know if I’m allowed to talk to any of the guys about us and whether we even _are_ an us because you won’t talk to me when I try to talk to you about us. And I need to talk to _someone_. Except my mom didn’t answer.”

“Okay I don’t know if I really followed that, but—are you crying?”

He might be. A little. It should probably be embarrassing.

“Don’t—shit. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I mean, cry if you need to, but. Oh my fucking god. No. I can’t be responsible for making you cry, okay? So you need to stop.”

“I’m sorry,” Nursey says wetly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Dex says, maybe a little desperately. He moves to sit on the bed next to Nursey and awkwardly pulls him into a hug.

“I’m sorry. For the not talking. Or whatever. What can I do to fix it?”

“I want to fall asleep with you.”

“Okay?”

“And spend the whole night.”

“Okay.”

“And then go down to breakfast together and like, hold hands maybe?—I want people to know. That we’re. Us. I want us to be an us.”

“Oh.”

Dex’s hand, his lovely, long-fingered hand, that had been rubbing gently up and down Nursey’s spine, goes still.

“But you don’t want that,” Nursey says. “And that’s—whatever. I’m not going to like. Give you an ultimatum. Because forcing you to out yourself would be a dick move. So. Just give me back my tequila and I’ll—”

“ _No_. I do.”

Nursey blinks.

“What?”

“I do want those things. I—I almost kissed you at fucking practice this morning. Just automatically. Because you were being a little shit and apparently instead of wanting to yell at you when you’re being a little shit now, I want to kiss you. Which isn’t the point. The _point_ is that I want to do that shit too. I just. I don’t know how.”

Nursey doesn’t say anything for several seconds.

His brain feels all warm and sloshy but this is important so he tries to rally.

“You’d be okay with coming out? To the team?”

“I mean. I guess? They won’t care. Or they won’t be dicks about it. Bitty is gay. Lardo is bi. You’re gay. No one is going to care that I’m—whatever the fuck I am. It’s Samwell.”

“It’s still a big deal. You’re an NHL prospect. If it gets out—“

“I don’t give a fuck. I wouldn’t be the first. My family won’t care and even if they did I’m emancipated now, so. And if you’re this upset about it—“

“I’m not really upset.” Nursey rubs his palms over his eyes.“I’m just drunk.”

“A. You _are_ upset, you fucking liar, and B. That’s actually probably something we should talk about. If we’re talking about, uh, things.”

His head is starting to hurt. “What should we talk about?”

“The whole drinking thing.”

“What drinking thing?”

“I don’t like it. You drunk. A couple beers is fine but when you’re like this—“

Oh.

Nursey closes his eyes.

“Because of your dad?”

“Because I don’t fucking know. I just don’t like it, okay?”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I can, uh. Not?”

“Whatever. We can talk about it in the morning.”

“That’s probably a good idea. We should just. Table this until then, probably.”

“Yeah.”

Dex stands and Nursey swallows down a request for him to stay.

“Come on,” Dex says.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to fall asleep with me and I’m not fucking cuddling you in the room you share with Chowder. Let’s go.”

“Oh.”

He scrambles out of the bed, nearly falling on his face when his foot gets hooked in the duvet.

“Are you sure?”

“No, you’re a mess. Come on before I change my mind.”

Nursey kisses the back of Dex’s neck because Dex doesn’t mean it. And Nursey likes the back of his neck.

Dex shivers in a gratifying way and then grabs Nursey’s hand, pulling him into the hall.

It’s not fast or secretive or embarrassed.

He takes his time opening the door to his room one-handed.

There’s no one in the hallway, but clearly Dex doesn’t care if anyone shows up and that’s. Nice.

Once inside, Dex pushes a water bottle into Nursey’s hands and makes him swallow a couple of Advil and then pulls off his shirt and shoves him into the bed.

He fusses with the sheets for a minute before turning off his lamp and tucking himself right up into Nursey’s space.

“Hey,” Nursey says, mouth against Dex’s forehead.

“Shut up,” Dex says. “You wanted to sleep. We’re sleeping.”

“Okay,” Nursey says.

He knocks twice against Dex’s spine.

Dex knocks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> One day left of quals. I'm feeling generally positive about my performance thus far but tomorrow will be the field I'm least confident about, so. Eeeek. I'm also out of buffer chapters and will have precious little time to write next week since it's pre-finals-conference-time for my students, the week after that since I'll be grading final papers, or the week after that since I'll be bridesmaid-ing in the Dominican Republic. I'm going to try to get through this whole fic without taking a hiatus, but I might need a brief one. We'll see. 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for all the awesome comments. I'm planning to spend my layovers at the airport heading to and from the DR answering as many comments as possible, so keep them coming. Also, shout out to all the folks on tumblr sending me daily sweet messages/encouragement. You the real MVP.


	20. Chapter 20

Dex wakes up to his phone trying to vibrate off the windowsill.

He can’t reach it to turn off his alarm, however, because there’s nearly 200 lbs of sleeping defenseman on top of him.

It’s nice.

“Nurse,” he says, shoving at Nursey’s shoulder. “Move.”

Nursey does not move.

Dex has no choice but to hook a heel around Nursey’s calf and roll them.

They manage to stay on the bed, though it’s a near thing, and Dex stretches his arm out—shoulder popping—to silence his phone.

Then he collapses back onto Nursey’s chest.

“Hey,” Nursey says, eyes slitted.

“Hey,” Dex agrees.

Nursey rolls them back over, away from the edge of the mattress, and then presses his mouth to Dex’s. Both of them have really terrible morning breath but Dex isn’t about to do something stupid like mention it.

Nursey shifts a little to the side, propped up on one elbow so he’s not actively crushing Dex anymore, and sighs, scratching at his stupidly toned belly. His nose is all wrinkled up in distaste at the early hour or maybe due to a hangover, but even with garbage breath and gunk in the corners of his eyes Dex finds Nursey outrageously attractive. He wants to do sappy shit like kiss Nursey’s eyelids.

“Fucking get off me,” he says instead. “I need to go.”

“No,” Nursey whines.

“Yes.” Dex says. “Come on. I can’t be late. I have less than ten minutes before I need to leave.”

Nursey sits up, resigned, looking bleary and perfect in the shadowed just-after-dawn light and Dex has to force himself to move. To get out of bed. To look away.

Dex shivers once he’s left the warm cocoon of shared blankets and he pulls on the first pair of jeans he can find, a thick pair of socks, a tank top, a flannel shirt.

Nursey grins happily at him as Dex rubs a little bit of sunscreen onto his cheeks and the back of his neck.

“Hey so. We said we were going to talk,” Nursey says.

Dex rubs harder.

“Can’t that wait?”

“No. We said morning. It’s morning. And if we wait then we won't get a chance until tonight. And we have team dinner tonight, so—”

Dex shoves his feet into his boots, then bends down to tie them. “Okay, but I have to _go_.”

“You still have,” Nursey digs his phone out of the sheets and squints at it, “Six minutes.”

“And we’re supposed to have a serious conversation in six minutes?”

“I mean. I don’t feel like it has to be a long conversation? Just a sober one. Which I am, now. And I promise I will stay that way because you said it bothered you when I get drunk. See? That was quick. You also said you wanted to be together. Is that still true, or—?”

Dex knots his laces with more force than is strictly necessary. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why is it not that easy?”

“Because I’m not _you,”_ Dex says and his voice is definitely, suddenly, too loud. “I can’t just _want_ things.”

“Hey,” Nursey says, softer. “Come here.”

Dex moves forward without really deciding to.

Nursey reaches for his hand. Circles his wrist with warm fingers. Pulls him in until his hips hit the frame of the lifted bed.

“Why can't you want things?” he asks.

Dex exhales.

“Because I don’t know how. Because every fucking time I’ve ever wanted something it was used against me or taken away. Except for hockey, maybe. But that wasn’t a want so much as like. A need. Everything else—“ he stops, horrified, because his throat is getting all hot and tight and he’s already cried on Nursey once, he’s not about to do it _again_ —

“Dex,” Nursey says.

“Stop it,” Dex snarls.

“I’m not doing anything,” Nursey points out.

The words are too gentle. Too kind.

He wants Nurse to push back. To yell. Aggression and anger he can cope with, but _this?_ He doesn’t know how to handle quiet kindness.

“ _Stop it,”_ He says again.

It comes out embarrassingly thready.

“I’m going to hug you now,” Nursey says. “Please don’t punch me.”

“Fuck you,” Dex says.

But he lets it happen.

“I really do need to leave,” he says a minute later.

He doesn’t make any effort to pull away, though.

“Okay.” Nursey sounds sad.

He shifts, releasing Dex.

He looks sad too.

Fuck.

“We can talk tonight,” Nursey says, leaning his weight back onto his hands. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—I just wanted to sit with you at dinner tonight and and I thought that maybe—it was dumb.”

“No. We can. Uh. Do stuff. If you want. I don’t care if people know we’re—whatever.”

He turns away to collect his jacket from the desk chair. “I’m not super comfortable with the idea of like. Making out in the hallways or anything, though.”

Nursey blinks at him.

“I was thinking about just telling the team for now?” he says. “And we’re not _heathens_. We’ll make out in the stacks like civilized people.”

“Of course. Okay. Well. I really do need to go.”

“You want me to drive you?”

Dex considers Nursey, still squinty and sleep-rumpled and more than likely dehydrated and hungover.

“I’m pretty sure that would be hazardous, so no.”

“Your face is hazardous,” Nursey says. “At least take my car. It snowed last night.”

“Nurse—“

“Please. I don’t need it today. The keys are on the hook by the door in my room and Chowder sleeps like the dead so just—“

“Okay,” Dex says. He catches Nursey’s face between his hands and ducks to roughly kiss his forehead. “Okay. Fine.Thank you. Shut the fuck up and go back to sleep.”

Nursey grins. “Okay.”

Dex pauses in the doorway, half into the hall, and just. Takes a breath. Commits the moment to memory: Nursey, warm and bleary and in his bed. Striped with pale gold early-morning light coming in the open blinds.

“Bye,” he says.

***

Dex is just finishing an oil change on a Subaru when his phone rings.

It’s Elle, which immediately makes his stomach go sort of clench-y.

There’s no reason she should be calling him.

He doesn’t want to answer but he does anyway.

“Hello?” he says.

“Dex,” Elle says.

Her voice is doing a thing he doesn’t particularly like.

“Elle. Hey. What’s going on?”

“I found your mother.”

“Oh,” He closes the hood. “Uh. Okay?”

“She’s in a low-security prison serving a drug sentence.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise. It isn’t, really. He knew she’d left because of some kind of pharmaceutical addiction. He remembers his dad yelling. His mom crying. The empty orange pill bottles scattered across the kitchen table.

Dex blinks. He sits down and leans back against the Subaru’s front fender.

“I mean. That doesn’t really matter though, does it? I’m already emancipated. She can’t like…change that. Right? Especially if she’s in jail.”

“No, she can’t. But Dex.”

“But _what_?”

“You have a half-sister.”

“I have three half-sisters,” he responds automatically. “What do they have do with anything?”

“No,” she says. “You have another half-sister. Your mother had a child last month and she gave up parental rights to that child at birth. The paperwork just hit the system.”

“Oh.”

Dex feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

He shifts the phone to his other ear.

“What—the baby. What’s its name? Does it have a name?”

“Finley.” Elle’s voice is very, very, gentle. “She’s eight weeks old.”

“Finley,” he repeats.

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back.

“Where is she? Has she been adopted?”

“No, not yet. She’s at Boston Children’s Hospital.”

_Boston_. He thinks. _Close._

“Why is she still at the hospital? I thought that babies were like. In high demand or whatever? For adoption.”

“Usually. There were some complications, though, because of your mother’s drug use while she was pregnant. So the baby will have to stay in the hospital for a while. One of the NICU nurses there is her foster.”

“Is she okay? I mean. Will she _be_ okay or—?”

“I don’t have those details,” Elle says. “I just found all this out a few minutes ago. I thought you would want to know.”

“I want to meet her,” Dex says. And he does. _Urgently_. In a way he can’t explain.

“Is that possible? Can I—Boston isn’t very far from Samwell, I could—

“Easy,” Elle says. “I don’t know. I can find out for you, if you’d like?”

“Please.”

“Okay. Let me make some calls. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you.”

Dex does the next two oil changes on autopilot. He cleans up the garage, updates the books, locks up, and drives home in something like a daze. He manages to forget about the Nursey situation until he gets back to the haus and all the guys are camped in the common room and Nursey is in the kitchen talking to Bitty and suddenly he remembers that there’s this whole other world full of problems unrelated to drug addict mothers and surprise infant sisters.

He bypasses the kitchen, despite Bitty’s cheerful invitation to join them, and goes right up the stairs.

“Uh,” he hears Nursey say. “I’m gunna—“

“Yeah,” Bitty says. “He looks—“

Dex doesn’t know how he looks but he can guess.

He takes a shower because he’s filthy and he hopes it will clear his head. It doesn’t. Nursey is waiting for him, sitting on Dex’s bed, when he finishes, damp and cold and with no helpful shower-epiphanies.

“Hey,” Nursey says.

“Hey,” Dex agrees.

“Are you okay?”

Dex sits next to him.

“I don’t think so.”

Nursey looks a little stymied by that.

“Okay, well. Points for honestly. Is this about us? Or. Me? I shouldn’t have pushed you this morning, I know—“

“No. It’s. Elle called me.”

“Okay?”

He isn’t sure how to say it, so he just—

“I have a sister. Or another sister, I guess.”

Nursey’s face goes entirely blank.

“What?”

“Yeah.” The words come out steady and even and weirdly emotionless considering all the whatever that he’s feeling: “Elle found my mom. She’s in prison. She had a baby a couple weeks ago but it’s— the baby is still in the hospital because of, uh, complications? Her name is Finley.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

Nursey shifts backward to lean against the wall, then pulls on Dex’s arm until Dex follows him and tips against Nursey’s side, slouching, temple to shoulder, fingers tangled, both of them staring sort of shell-shocked at the tidy rows of Jack’s photography opposite them.

“Will she be okay?” Nursey asks. “The baby.”

“Probably? It sounded like probably. I asked Elle—she’s going to see if they’ll let me visit her.”

“Where is she?”

“Boston Children’s.”

“That’s not far.”

“I know.”

Nursey presses his mouth to the top of Dex’s head and leaves it there.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Dex makes a rough noise that might be a laugh. “Same.”

Nursey sighs and his breath sends goosebumps down Dex’s neck.

“Is the father around?”

“Didn’t sound like it. My mom gave up custody and I think Elle said one of the nurses was going to be her foster? I just. I can’t believe my mom would do this _again_.”

“Again?”

“Not the drugs. Or the being pregnant on drugs. She didn’t start that shit until I was like four or five. But the having a kid and then fucking abandoning it? Like. Aren’t you supposed to _learn_ from your mistakes?”

Nursey slides his arm over Dex’s shoulders, cups his palm around Dex’s elbow, and then drags his hand up Dex’s bicep.

It annoyingly soothing.

“Yeah. That sucks. But now the baby has a chance at a good life, right? She’ll get adopted by some rich couple who want a baby _so bad_. She’ll be like. A tiny little miracle, for them. And they’ll love her and sign her up for ballet or hockey or whatever. And they’ll let her paint her room any color she wants even if it’s a horrible purple that clashes with all the furniture, and they’ll read her bedtime stories every night and they’ll give her stupidly over-the-top gifts.”

“Like a Porsche for her sixteenth birthday?” Dex says wryly. “With the stipulation that she trade it for a Range Rover during the winter months? So she has four wheel drive in the snow?”

Nursey huffs out a soundless laugh against the top of Dex’s head.

“Exactly.”

“That sounds pretty great,” Dex allows. “Did you ever talk to your mom?”

“We’re talking about _your_ family drama right now,” Nursey says.

“Not anymore. Did you?”

“Yeah. Well, no. But she’s planning to call in like five minutes. Should give me half an hour to talk to her before dinner.”

“Good. You gunna tell her you miss her or whatever?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Good.”

Nursey rocks them a little. Gentle. Barely discernible. “You want me to sit with you until then?”

“I guess if you want to.”

“Okay.”

“Do you, uh—“ Dex pulls at a loose thread in the seam of his pajama pants. “Do you want me to sit with _you_ while you talk to her?”

He can feel Nursey swallow.

“I guess if you want to.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the baby finally appears! :o
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Unfortunately, I am going to have to take a short hiatus. I'll be grading finals for the next few days, then doing bridesmaid things in the Dominican Republic for a few days, and then heading to the farm for christmas. I also have to prep for my prospectus defense, tidy up the syllabus for the class I'm teaching in the spring (comics again!) and edit two articles for publication, so. I'm just a little overwhelmed at the moment. The good news is that I'll be taking several plane/road trips before christmas. So I'll say worst case I'll have a new chapter for you by Christmas, and can hopefully resume weekly updates then. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience and your comments. Expect some answers to them while I'm chilling in airports on layovers next week! If you're students, I hope your finals go really well!


	21. Chapter 21

It’s hard to talk to your mom about the boy you like when the boy you like is currently pressed right up against you.

Clearly Nursey didn’t think this through.

“So tell me,” his mom says, after brief commentary on the weather (bad), his grades (good), and the hockey season (very good), “is everything okay? You had me a little worried when you asked to talk.”

This is where he’s supposed to say “I miss you,” but the words stick in his mouth, lodged solidly between his tongue and his teeth.

“There’s this guy,” he says instead.

And Dex goes very still beside him.

“Oh, baby,” his mom sighs, all warm and dulcet and familiar. “It’s been so long since we talked about boys. Tell me about this one.”

“He’s—“

Nursey swallows.

“He’s not just a…a one. Or maybe he’s—“

_The_ one? He’s not about to say that shit out loud. Regardless, he can’t just lump Dex in with the rest of them.

“He’s different.”

“Oh,” his mother sounds cautious. “Well, alright. Tell me about him. What’s his name?”

“His name is Dex. He’s on the team with me. We’re D-partners but he’s going to go pro because he’s _so_ good, mom. Like. He’s getting drafted for sure next year and he’s—“ Nursey swallows again despite the fact that his mouth is suddenly dry. “Well. He’s kind of an asshole, but in a nice way? He’s good at listening. And fixing things. And he cares a lot even though he pretends he doesn’t.”

“Oh, my darling,” she says. “What does he look like?”

“Freckles,” he says. Blurts out, maybe. “Um. He has a lot of freckles. Everywhere. And red hair, but he keeps it buzzed short. And um. He’s tall. Maybe an inch taller than me? And he has really pretty eyes.”

He glances askance at the boy in question, who’s currently very, very pink.

“He blushes a lot, too. It’s cute.”

Dex punches him in the thigh.

“And you’re…dating?” His mom asks.

“Yeah. For a couple weeks now. But we’ve been—I’ve liked him for longer. He stayed with me in New York over Christmas. And then I went up to Maine with him after. Met his family.”

“ _Derek_ ,” his mom says. And, yeah. He knows that’s a big deal. Especially for him.

“You really like this boy,” she says.

It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway.

“I do,” he says. And then, quieter: “It’s kind of scary.”

Dex’s hand, still fisted against Nursey’s thigh, goes slack. He shifts so his palm is cupping Nursey’s leg instead; he squeezes, gentle, just above Nursey’s knee.

“Does he like you too?”

“Oh,” Nursey says, grinning sideways at Dex, “for sure. He’s totally gone on me.”

Dex makes a face at him.

“Good,” she says. “I’d like to meet him.”

“Actually—“

The words get stuck again.

“Um.”

Dex’s hand moves on his leg. Slow. Up and then down. A warm chafe against denim.

“Actually, I was wondering if you guys could come visit soon?” It’s a little rushed, but he gets it out in one go. “I haven’t seen you since summer and—“

Dex leans into him.

Subtle.

But heavy.

Nursey leans back.

“I miss you guys,” it comes out a little thready.

It’s silent for a beat, and then:

“Oh, baby,” his mom sighs.“We miss you too.”

“I mean, I know you guys are busy, but—“

“We’re not too busy for _you_ ,” she interrupts.

Except they _have_ been.

“You missed my birthday,” Nursey says. And it’s supposed to be a statement of fact but the sheer amount of ugly pathos in his voice sort of overwhelms the intention. “And Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And I know you sent gifts and cards and stuff but. That’s not the same.”

It’s silent for a significantly longer beat. Dex’s hand keeps moving on his knee. And then—oh god—his mom sniffs.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Fantastic. He’s made his mother cry.

“It’s just—we didn’t think you minded. You always have so many things going on with your friends and you’ve always been so independent. We know you’re an adult now, and, well every time we visited last year you seemed so embarrassed and you kept saying we didn’t have to come or you complained that you could have been skiing with that friend of yours who has the terrible name.”

Nursey laughs a little wetly at that.

His mother is not a fan of Shitty.

“Mom. I’m a teenager. I’m _supposed_ to be embarrassed when my mother is screaming she loves me from the stands at a hockey game or showing up at my dorm to cook me breakfast on my birthday or making me spend Christmas at home instead of going on a skiing trip. And you’re supposed to do it anyway because _I’m your kid_. And. Okay. Maybe that’s not fair, I just. I haven’t seen you guys since summer and it seems like I’m the only one who cares.”

And that’s—more than he meant to say, really.

Dex’s hand moves, abandoning his leg to slip around his lower back. It pauses, cupped around Nursey’s opposite elbow for a minute, and then resumes travel upward, fingers curling around his bicep: palm against skin, thumb moving in slow circles. The length of Dex’s arm, a warm V tucked around his back, is reassuring and solid behind him.

“Derek,” his mom says. And it kind of hurts, the way she says it. “We don’t know what we’re doing, you know? Your father and I. We’re doing the best we can but it’s not like we’ve ever raised a teenager before. We’re lost here. So you have to _tell_ us if we’re doing something wrong, okay?”

“Okay. That’s fair.”

“And honey I will get on a plane _tonight_ if it means you stop thinking that we don’t care. We miss you _so_ much. Your father is already planning a three week family trip to Paris once your semester is over and he’s going to ban cell phones for a least a week of it so we can have family time and catch up without interruptions.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Do I need to go book a ticket?”

She’s serious, is the thing.

He scrubs the heel of one hand over his eyes.

“Nah. But spring break? Can we do something then?”

“I’m clearing our schedules right now.”

“Okay.”

She makes a considering noise. “Let’s see. You have a game that Friday of spring break, so we can’t all go somewhere, but your father and I can come to you. Stay in that charming little bed and breakfast north of campus. Maybe take a day trip or two? You could bring your young man with us, of course.”

There are a couple things Nursey has to work through there. First, his mother is assuming he and Dex will still be together two months from now. Second, she apparently knows his game schedule.

“You have my games in your calendar?”

“Of course we do,” her tone is judgmental. “We try to watch them if possible, but even if not, we always check the score. And your father proudly recites your stats to anyone who will listen.”

“Oh.”

“Now, how does your Dex feel about French food, because we’ll need to make reservations now if we want to eat at—“

Nursey has to close his eyes for a minute and smile at nothing as she keeps talking.

He leans into Dex. “How do you feel about French food?” he asks lowly.

“Um,” Dex says. “Fine?”

“Mom,” he interrupts. She’s moved on to talking about wine. “Dex will eat pretty much anything. We’re hockey players. We’re always hungry. But, uh. We don’t drink. Or, I don’t, at least. Right now. Dex might, but—“

Dex meets his eyes, wide and maybe a little shocked. He shakes his head.

“Uh. He probably won’t either.”

His mother is quiet for several seconds.

“Is this something we need to talk about?”

“No. I’m not, like—it’s not a problem. I’m just figuring some things out.”

“Derek.”

“Seriously, mom. I’m fine. I promise.”

She’s probably going to push it, which actually kind of makes him feel good, when Dex’s phone rings.

They both jump.

“Hold on,” he says, then shifts so Dex has the use of both arms again and can retrieve his phone from him pocket.

“It’s Elle,” he says, eyes wide and gold and maybe a little scared.

“So answer it,” he whispers.

“Right.”

He stands, brings the phone to his ear, ducks his head and cups the back of neck with his free hand.

“Hello?” he says quietly.

“Derek?” Nursey’s mom says.

“Hold on, one second,” he whispers again.

“Yeah,” Dex says. “I’m—oh? Oh. Okay. Yeah, that would be—No! That’s totally fine. I can—I’ll ask Nursey.” His fingers scratch absently at the short, bristly hairs at the nape of his neck. “Thank you so much. Yeah, no, that’s great. If you could text it to me that’d be—okay. Thanks.”

He straightens.

He slips the phone back in his pocket.

“Can you drive me to Boston Children’s?” he asks.

“What, now?”

“I mean. We could wait until tomorrow? But visiting hours aren’t over until eight so we’ve still got—“

“Yeah, absolutely, I—“ he stands, then remembers the phone in his own hand. “Hey, mom? I need to help Dex with a thing but can I call you back later tonight?”

She sighs at him.

It’s delightfully familiar.

“Whenever you have time for me, I suppose,” she says, feigning offense.

He laughs.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Go see to your young man. And send me a picture of him at some point. I’ve pulled up your roster online but these headshots are _so small_.”

He laughs harder. “Yes ma’am.”

By the time he’s hung up, laced his boots, and retrieved his keys, Dex has his coat and backpack on and is struggling to get his left shoe on his right foot. Possibly because it’s the left shoe and his right foot.

Nursey sorts him out, still laughing, and then just, holds both of his hands for a minute in the hallway, forcing him into stillness.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good, is it—sorry. Shit. Did you want to stay for team dinner? I can figure out a bus if—“

“Shut up. Let’s go.”

He keeps one of Dex’s hands, slots their fingers together as they descend the stairs, and yells, cavalier, into the den, “Dex and I have a thing so we’re going to miss dinner! Save some pie for us, Bits!”

“Please!” Dex adds, grinning, a slight edge of hysteria to his laughter as Nursey pulls him out the door. He drops his voice, maybe giggling a little. And Dex _giggling_ is something else.

“Seriously,” Dex says. _Giggles_. “Manners, asshole.”

“Shitty is literally bare-ass naked on the communal couch right now,” Nursey says, squinting against a sudden rush of snowy air. “We live with a bunch of heathens. Manners do not exist in this hellscape.”

“Fair."

“Wait,” he hears Ransom say as the door slides shut behind them. “Were they holding hands?”

***

Twenty minutes later, Nursey smoothes an adhesive paper visitor badge onto his chest and watches as Dex does the same. He’s still holding Nursey’s hand. His skin is clammy.

“You good?” Nursey asks.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

They meet Amy Santana, NICU nurse and baby-foster extraordinaire at the NICU front desk. She’s wearing scrubs with vintage motorcycles on them. Nursey likes her immediately.

She does a double-take when she sees them, and he almost lets go of Dex's hand, because what if—but then she grins, extending her own hand to Dex.

“You must be Finley’s big brother. I can see the family resemblance.”

Dex seems to have some emotions about that sentence.

“Hi,” he manages. “Dex.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh,” Dex clears his throat. “My name. I go by Dex. This is my, uh…Derek.”

Nursey maybe has some emotions about the way Dex carefully says his name.

Amy considers their joined fingers, then winks at Nursey.

“Well, I’d shake your hand too, Derek, but it seems to be occupied.” Dex’s ears go pink. “Are you two ready to meet Finley?”

“Yes,” they say.

They get a rundown of the rules, wash their hands up to their elbows while humming the “happy birthday” song three times as a length-requirement meter, tie on some paper gowns, and then, they meet Finley.

She’s not in one of the clear plastic box things that the really tiny babies are in, but some sort of small, open-air, medical-grade, crib. And there are monitors and wires and the usual kind of scary shit you’d expect but she still looks like a baby. A baby in a little patterned kimono-looking thing with a little pink hat with little damp eyelashes against little chubby cheeks.

Except the baby is—not white.

Or. Not white-white, anyway. Her skin is maybe a shade lighter than Nursey’s own. And sure, babies all kind of look the same but her adorable little swooped nose is…

Well.

_Not white_.

“Uh.” Nursey says. “Are you sure that’s the right baby?

And then she opens her eyes, wiggles enough to dislodge the pink cap on her head and—yeah. Okay. She’s got the same gold-brown eyes as Dex and tightly curled, nearly blonde, red hair.

"Oh my god,” Dex says.

Nursey would make fun of him for how embarrassingly reverent the exhalation is, except a moment later she flails her little fists and Nursey—just sort of automatically— brushes a finger down the back of her tiny, soft, hand (so soft, holy shit, he didn’t know human skin could _feel_ like that) and she shifts her attention over to him and _yawns_ —

“Oh my _god_ ,” Nursey says.

“Do you want to hold her?” Amy asks.

“ _Yes,_ ” Dex and Nursey both say.

Amy shows them how to pick her up without interfering with any of her trailing wires or the scary looking tube-thing taped to her belly and then she just. Leaves them. Goes to check on other babies or something. And Dex, sitting in the visitor chair, holding Finley like she’s made of glass, watches Amy walk away in something like abject horror.

“Wait,” he whispers, “I don’t think—“

Finley makes a little squeaky noise and he immediately redirects his attention.

“Hey. You good?” he asks her. “You okay?” he glances, maybe a little frantic, at the surrounding monitors, then at Nursey, but it’s not like _Nursey_ knows what the red and green numbers surrounding them mean either.

Dex clearly wants to yell at Amy to come back but also clearly _doesn’t_ want to yell because he’s holding the most beautiful infant that has ever existed and he can’t just _disturb_ her like that.

Nursey might be projecting.

It’s fine.

“I can’t believe she just _left_ ,” Dex whispers.

Nursey can’t tell if he’s talking to him or Finley.

“What if I drop her?”

“You’re not going to drop her.”

Nursey scoots his own chair a little closer just in case, though.

“What if I was a terrible person, though? I could be an axe-murderer. And they’re just letting me hold babies. Tiny, fragile, fucking, _little_ babies. That seems irresponsible. Doesn’t that seem irresponsible?”

“You’re not an axe-murderer. And Elle probably sent them your info. You’re like the most stand-up citizen that ever existed. 3.9 GPA. Perfect attendance. Perfect athlete. Not even a parking ticket.”

“I don’t have a _car,_ ” he hisses back. “It’s hard to get a parking ticket when you _don’t have a car_.”

“I’m sorry, are we really arguing about whether or not you should be allowed to hold your own sister? Because I’ll happily take her from you.”

“No you will _not_ ,” Dex snarls, hunching himself protectively around her. “Wait yourfucking turn.”

“Okay.”

Finley squeaks again and he bounces her a little, looking concerned.

“I can’t believe—I mean. God. She’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Nursey agrees.

“Like. Holy shit. I love her already. Is that normal? Fuck. _Look_ at her.”

“Yeah,” Nursey agrees.

Finley yawns again and Dex grins down at her. At her little squinched-up face and her little chubby hand clenched firmly in both his paper gown and the green sweater under it, pulling the fabric low enough to expose the top of the rose tattoo underneath his left collarbone.

And Dex is holding her like—

Looking at her like—

Fuck.

Nursey needs a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you celebrate Christmas, Merry Christmas! If you don't, Happy Tuesday!
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Peep that chapter count slowly rising. I'm so bad at estimating fic length. No promises on if I'll have an update next week. The next two chapters are written but my betas are just as busy as I am, so I may have to go every-other-week for a chapter or two before I have a buffer again. Thanks for your patience and all the comments! Y'all are the best. Oh and Deacon says hi!


	22. Chapter 22

Finley has Heterotaxy syndrome.

Amy explains that it’s rare and complicated and means her heart has a couple of defects and is in the wrong place in her chest. It means her liver is a little under-developed and she’s already had two surgeries and will probably need several more as she grows. It means she’s currently stable, but won’t be able to leave the hospital for months. But it’s not a death sentence. And being at Children’s means she has a shot at a more-or-less normal childhood once they get her through all the surgeries. It means she’s in the best hands possible.

What Finley _doesn’t_ have are any kind of drug-related complications.

“So my mom was clean?” Dex asks, a little startled, when Amy tells him. “I thought this was all because of—“

“No. This is just down to bad luck. Your mother spent nearly her entire pregnancy clean in prison. So prison may have saved Finley’s life, actually.”

He gets a little lost in his head, thinking about that.

Because his mom…well, she’d been a good mom, from what he can remember. She’d read to him before bed and cuddled with him when he was sick and tucked him somewhere safe and quiet when his dad was drunk and angry. She would sing to him while he took his baths and cheer the loudest at his hockey games. She was the one who signed him up for his first team at six years old—who’d argued long and hard with his dad to justify the equipment fee. She’d been a good mom. Right up until she was gone.

Dex breathes in the baby smell from the top of Finley’s head, presses a kiss to her tiny curls and sways a little and listens as Amy tells him the plan for Finley’s treatment. She asks if he’d like to be kept apprised of any changes. She asks if he’d like to speak with the hospital’s social worker before he leaves.

He does.

He says he does without even really thinking about it. Because Finley is so—Dex wants—he thinks about Nursey, eighteen and desperate for some sign that someone, at some point, loved him before his parents adopted him. That someone cared.

Dex wants Finley to have that.

He wants to visit whenever he can. He wants to be there for the surgeries. He wants to meet potential adopters. He wants to know her. Watch her grow up. And if that’s not possible, he wants to take pictures with her and add them to her file and leave every bit of contact information he has so she can find him again one day. Because she’s small and helpless and—a part of him. And even though he’s only known about her for less than a day he already feels fiercely, almost frighteningly, beholden to her.

Nursey leaves to go find them some food when he sits down with the social worker and doesn’t come back for twenty minutes. His face—closed off, maybe even apprehensive?—when he does come back with two wrapped sandwiches, makes something in Dex’s gut clench.

“Visiting hours are almost over,” Nursey points out, not meeting Dex’s eyes. “You want to go back and see her real quick before we have to leave?”

He does.

The car ride home is quiet.

They don’t hold hands.

The Haus is weirdly still when they get back. There’s no one in the den or kitchen and Dex only spares a second to be grateful as he goes straight to his room and shuts the door. He wants to do some research on Heterotaxy syndrome and look over his work and school schedules and see when he can go back and visit again.

Nursey slips inside a few minutes later with a piece of pie. He sets it on the bed next to Dex’s laptop.

“So,” he says.

“I was able to register with the hospital as being her family,” Dex says. “Um. Kin? They call it. So I can visit outside of normal hours. I don’t have any medical power or anything. But like. They’re at least going to keep me in the loop. Call me if her condition changes. Things like that. And they’ll let me know when they choose a foster or adopter for her to go home with and try to help keep me in contact with her.”

“That’s cool,” Nursey says.

He still won’t meet Dex’s eyes.

Dex looks at the pie so he doesn’t have to look at Nursey _not looking_ at him.

“Hey, so,” he says, and the words are quieter, sadder then he means them to be. “I get it. It’s a lot.”

“No shit, Nursey says.

Dex’s curls his fingers tighter around the fork in his hand.

“So it’s fine.”

“What’s fine?”

“If you don’t—it’s fine. I’m not going hold it against you.”

“Hold _what_ against me? Dex. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t sign up to deal with a kid when we started this—whatever we are. And a kid is. A big fucking deal. Even just a normal kid. But a special needs kid in the hospital is—and we’re _teenagers_. So it’s fine. I get it. You don’t want to spend all your free time hanging out with a sick infant and that’s clearly all I’m going to want to do right now, so. It’s fine.”

Nursey makes a noise that Dex can’t interpret at all. He looks up because he has to and Nursey’s face is—

Wow.

Nursey’s face is really, really, angry.

“I’m sorry. Are you saying it’s fine if I break up with you?” Nursey says. “Because you want to try and be part of your—your tiny, beautiful, orphaned, baby sister’s life?”

“Is it a breakup if we were never together?” Dex says, and he regrets it before the sentence is even fully out of his mouth, “Because we never actually said—“

They both know the words are supposed to hurt, and they do, Dex can see that they do as they land, but Nursey only moves closer instead of farther away.

“ _No_ ,” he interrupts, low and final. “I don’t want to break up with you even though you’re a colossal asshole. And I definitely don’t want to break up with you because you’re willing to take on the responsibility of showing the fuck up for your baby sister. And it _would_ be a breakup because we _are_ together and also _fuck you_.”

“Oh,” Dex says.

All the tightly-wound aggression in him just falls away.

“Then what—? As soon as I said I wanted to see the social worker you just _left.”_

It sounds accusatory. It probably is.

“I _left_ because I thought you might want some privacy and I needed a minute to get my head on straight. I left because if I didn’t I was going to start saying the kind of stupid shit that would scare you off.”

Dex swallows. “Like?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says, aggrieved. “That’s the whole point.”

“Nurse. Nursey.” He swallows again. “ _Derek.”_

Nursey stills.

He crosses his arms.

“Finley has your eyes,” he says. “And red hair. And she’ll probably get cute as shit freckles the minute she sees some sunlight.”

“Yeah?” Dex says. “Our mom is like. The most Irish person you’ll ever meet. So?”

"So she’s mixed race. And she’s— And you—fuck. You were standing there. Looking at her like she was the best damn thing you’d ever seen, talking about how you _loved_ her and it was like—I don’t know. Watching some fantasy of mine come to life. Just. Look.”

He pulls up a picture on his phone that Amy had taken right before they left. Of the three of them. Dex holding Finley, looking down at her, enraptured, while Finley reaches for Nursey’s grinning face.

“Oh,” Dex says, and it feels a little like someone has hit him in the back of the head with a hockey stick. “She looks—like us. A mix of the two of us.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” he says again. “That’s. A fantasy of yours?”

Nursey puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Maybe,” he says shortly.

“Oh,” Dex says a third time.

“So stop being a dumbass,” Nursey says. “We’re not breaking up. Because we _are_ together. And I’m going to call you my boyfriend and you’re going to deal with it.”

He says it like a challenge.

He doesn’t have to, though. Dex has no desire to fight him.

“Whatever,” Dex says.

“Hey,” Nursey clears his throat, and it sounds like it hurts him a little. “I’m going to need something more than ‘whatever’ for this one.”

“No,” Dex says, and then, very quickly, after Nursey’s face falls: “I mean, yeah. Sorry. I do. I want that too. I want—yes.”

“Okay. Well. Good.”

“Do you—“ Dex reaches for him, maybe a little desperate. “Can you come over here?”

“Here?” Nursey asks, climbing onto the bed with him.

“No.”

Dex hooks his fingers into Nursey’s shirt and pulls him closer.

“Here.”

***

Dex wakes up to Bitty’s singing.

The bathroom is close enough down the hall that the Beyonce lyrics are clear above the sound of the shower and Dex can’t help grinning a little before opening his eyes and trying to extricate himself from Nursey’s various clinging limbs. Dex is beginning to build enough empirical evidence to confidently assert that Derek Malik Nurse is part koala. Dex tries to generate some distain about that, just for appearances, but finds himself utterly incapable. Because as he manages to wiggle from the circle of Nursey’s admittedly very nice biceps, Nursey rolls onto his belly, frowning a little and

pushes his face into the pillow—Dex’s Pillow—inhaling slowly and sort of like, burrowing his nose into it, smiling softly and Dex can’t—he’s not—

Half of him wants to punch the fucking wall and the other half wants to curl around Nursey and never ever leave. There is a…fondness, now, that clings to Dex’s ribs and makes it hard to breathe sometimes. There is a _want_ in him. A want that grows a little each time he reminds himself he’s allowed to have. 

He _wants_ Nursey. All of him. All of the time. And he only really lets himself think about this late at night or early in the morning when there is darkness and quiet and warmth to temper the clench in his gut.

He bends down, not to kiss Nursey, not while he sleeps, that would be—too much. But just to cup a hand around his jaw for a moment. To push his hair back from his temple. To appreciate his stupid, shadowed face up close and still and without observation.

Nursey blinks his eyes open and Dex snatches his hand away, straightening.

“Wha—“ Nursey says.

“Nothing.”

“You watching me sleep, Poindexter?”

“Fuck you,” Dex says.

“You don’t have to be a dick, you know,” Nursey says, slow and sleepy, but still far too aware for comfort. “I won’t tell anyone if you’re sweet.”

Dex crosses his arms.

Because he’s cold, not because he’s feeling called out.

“I don’t know how to be sweet.”

“Just—“ Nursey cuts himself off with a yawn. Dex despairs over how cute he finds Nursey’s wrinkled nose. “—just kiss me and tell me you’ll be right back.”

Dex uncrosses his arms. He leans forward in a series of halting movements.

He kisses Nursey’s temple, dry and quick, and then immediately steps back, crossing his arms again.

Nursey watches him patiently.

“Bathroom,” he says roughly. “I’ll be right back.”

“ ‘Kay,” Nursey agrees, beaming at him. He rubs his cheek against Dex’s pillow. “Hurry.”

Dex hurries.

They don’t manage to fall back to sleep before Dex’s alarm goes off, but they do get in a solid fifteen minutes of what Dex is unwilling to term ‘cuddling’ but isn’t sure what else _to_ term it.

They get ready together, washing faces and brushing teeth in companionable silence, bumping elbows as they maneuver around each other.

It’s frighteningly domestic.

They separate to get dressed and then Dex waits outside Nursey’s door, trying and probably failing to look casual, until Nursey emerges. He takes a breath and holds out one hand, not looking at Nursey— _very intentionally not looking at Nursey_ —and doesn’t exhale until Nursey accepts it. Nursey does the thing Dex likes where he pushes all of his fingers in between all of Dex’s fingers, rubbing his thumb absently over Dex’s first knuckle, and then nods toward the stairs.They can hear most of the guys in the common room already, waiting for the last few stragglers before they all head to breakfast together.

“You sure?” Nursey asks, raising their joined hands.

Dex rolls his eyes and pulls Nursey down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry I didn't quite make it in time to count as a weekly update. I've been working on prospectus things and ended up spending the last two days helping out the family I used to nanny for (all four years of undergrad! pretty sure I talk about them in my old author notes). They unexpectedly needed help and they knew I was in town because we keep in touch through facebook. It was so cool to hang out with the (much older!) kids now (though, funnily enough, I made them all pretty much the exact same lunch/dinners I would have made them 5 years ago, I guess some things don't change). Anyway, I'm a tad behind on both school and fic work as a result, but it was well worth it. I'm also cutting off all my hair tomorrow so hit up tumblr if you want to see me -15ish inches of hair. I'm excited.
> 
> Expect the next chapter by the 12th!


	23. Chapter 23

Having a boyfriend is great.

Having William Poindexter as a boyfriend is a lot of other adjectives. Most of them are still synonyms for “great” but some are a little closer to “baffling” or “vexing” or “exasperating” or maybe just one of those long, teeth-clenched, exhales that end more fond than angry.

For someone who writes a lot of poetry, Nursey finds describing his relationship with Dex all but impossible.

His journal is full of trying, though.

They _fit_ , is the thing. Both physically—hands and bodies and mouths— but also just. Generally. When Dex is having a loud-music-anxiety-spiral about a GM arriving for their next game or he’s spent too much time on the internet reading about Finley’s next surgery, Nursey can pull him out of his head with a little well-placed sarcasm softened by an invitation for pond hockey or a Finley visit. When Nursey’s bed is littered with crumped up paper and he should be working on his chemistry homework but can’t _until he gets the stupid fucking second stanza of this poem right_ , Dex will bully him into driving them to the store for more butter or ask for his help fixing something and by the time they’ve finished his brain has stopped running in circles and he can breathe again.

They’re good together. Even when they fuck up and yell at each other and slam doors and then have to apologize with actual honest words, or, more often than not, crossed arms and anxious, soft-spoken, insults. Uncertain, reaching hands. Apologetic fingers.

The team doesn’t really get it.

Mostly because Nursey and Dex still act the same but now when Dex is criticizing Nursey’s flagrant disregard for suggested daily sugar intake he’s sitting right next to Nursey in the cafeteria, shoulders touching, and when they’re shoving each other on the bench or getting in each other’s faces in a game, they’re grinning, and when they’re arguing about plays on the bus, they’re holding hands when they don’t need both hands for pointed gesturing.

Now, when Nursey misses a pass in practice Dex can yell:

“Distracted, Nurse?”

And Nursey can answer:

“By your beauty.”

And Dex might tell him shut the fuck up and Jack might remind them they’re there to play hockey, not flirt.

And if hearing their staid Canadian captain carefully say the word “flirt” is enough to set them off into intermittent, lingering, fits of laughter that make Nursey miss a pass _again,_ Dex can say: “Still distracted by my beautiful face, Nurse?”

And Nursey can answer: “Nah. This time it was your ass.”

And Dex can say: “You can’t even _see_ my ass under all this shit.”

And Nursey can say: “I have a vivid imagination.”

And Jack can say: “ _Hockey.”_

And when, on Valentine’s Day, Dex presents Nursey with a chocolate pecan pie with an artfully rendered, if a little wobbly, latticed dick on it, Nursey kisses him and says _thank you_ and declares that, from now on, he expects a dick-pie to celebrate every special occasion.

“Don’t start having standards now, Nurse,” Dex mutters, ears pink.

“For you? Wouldn’t dream of it, Poindexter.”

“Are they flirting again?” Chowder asks Bitty, sotto voice, from the kitchen doorway. “Or are they fighting?”

“Hard to tell, with them,” Bitty murmurs back.

“I think it’s both,” Ransom says helpfully.

“Definitely both,” Holster agrees.

And Ransom and Shitty and Chowder and Bitty and Jack and Lardo have all checked in with Nursey, utilizing various levels of tact to make sure that Dex isn’t being an _actual_ dick to him. Because _he’s definitely been better recently, but do you remember_ —And of course Nursey remembers, he tells Ransom, more than a little exhausted. He can’t _forget_ what Dex was like. But that Dex isn’t the Dex he’s dating.

The Dex he’s dating makes him dick pies and shares his gatorade during games—despite serious and frankly weird superstitions about personal water bottle use. The Dex he’s dating notices when they stop at a convenience store for snacks and one of the employees chooses to shadow Nursey as he browses the shelves. The Dex he’s dating returns from the cold section with an arm full of drinks and says, accent front and center: “Afternoon, sir. I know my boyfriend looks like a real suspicious character in his floral shirt and skinny jeans, but he’s got an amex black card in his wallet and a Porsche parked outside—gift from his loving parents. I have six dollars and a borrowed bike. My parents are both in prison. So if you’re going to follow someone around your fine establishment, it should probably be me.”

The Dex he’s dating loves babies. Especially babies named Finley. The Dex he’s dating knows the names of all Finley’s nurses and how to read all the monitors she’s attached to and sometimes when Finley is upset or feverish he’ll sing to her in a soft raspy voice that _does things_ to Nursey’s general chest region.

The Dex he’s dating awkwardly kisses Nursey’s bruised fingers after a nasty slash and hesitantly asks if they can still hold hands — _or will it hurt too bad?_ The Dex he’s dating likes cuddling, even if he won’t admit it, and playing with Nursey’s hair, and running at night together—no words, just steamed breathing.

Nursey is still trying to be cautious, but the Dex he’s dating now is nothing like the Dex he met in the administration office six months before.

He still has issues with money, and Nursey probably won’t ever understand why Dex won’t just let Nursey buy him shit. But he respects Dex’s insistence on paying his own way unless it’s valentines day and then he cites the emotional value of a Dick Pie being equal or greater than the monetary value of the new hockey equipment he’s purchased for Dex. And Dex argues and tries to make him return it except Nursey has learned enough to have already sent the receipt and tags through the paper shredder in the library. He proudly presents the shreddings in a zipper bag to Dex who is startled into laughter, which gives Nursey enough time to push him onto the bed and say:

“I think I better kiss you until you stop being so stupid.”

“Oh you better?”

“Mm. It’ll probably take a while.”

And then he does, before Dex can decide if he still wants to fight about it.

The point is, dating William Poindexter is nothing at all like he expected a relationship would be but it’s still everything he didn’t know he wanted. He thinks this is maybe what happiness just feels like. All the time. He wishes he could feel like this forever.

And then he gets the email.

He’s been waiting for it, is the thing.

Ever since he sent off the box with the little tube of his spit, he’s been waiting for his results.

So it shouldn’t be shocking when he receives them.

It is anyway.

He gets back from a run, checks his phone to see if Dex is done having dinner with the Falcs GM (because as the season progresses, his boyfriend is now apparently being _wooed_ by Important Hockey People) and then he absently thumbs over to his email.

A minute later he’s scrambling for his laptop.

Not only does he have his results, he also has an email from his—

Cousin.

Holy shit.

Thirty minutes and one FaceTime call later, Nursey is standing in the basement, one hand on an open cabinet door, staring at a bottle of tequila.

Except he remembers the look on Dex’s face when Nursey pulled the scotch out of his hand the day before Christmas. He remembers the way Dex had said, _“Because I don’t fucking know. I just don’t like it, okay?”_ He thinks about Piper delivering a stuffed lobster to Dex on the couch. About the soft noises Dex makes sometimes in his sleep. He thinks about his mom’s concerned voice on the phone.

Nursey closes the cabinet and goes back upstairs.

Except Dex isn’t here.

And Ransom and Holster and Chowder and Lardo are at the arcade.

He goes to Bitty’s room.

But Bitty isn’t the one who answers the door.

It’s Jack.

“Oh,” they both say.

“Um. Sorry,” Jack says, so damn Canadian. "I was just waiting for Bits, are you—“

“I was looking for him too. Do you, uh, know where he is?”

“Library, picking up a hold.”

“The _library_? Really?”

“Cookbook.”

“Oh. Okay, that makes more sense.”

Jack smiles wanly, then frowns, taking a minute to really look at Nursey.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

_Totally_ , Nursey means to say.

Because Jack is his captain and they’ve always got along but they aren’t close. And Jack definitely isn’t the kind of person who you take Emotional Things to, but despite all that his mouth doesn’t say _totally_. It says:

“I found my birth parents. Or. Family. I guess.”

Jack takes a step back.

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t know you were looking for them.”

“Yeah. Since I turned 18.”

Jack continues to study him. “Not what you’d hoped for?”

“No.”

Jack glances behind him, at Bitty’s bed.

He gestures to it.

“Wanna sit?”

“No. It’s fine. I’m just—“

“Come sit.”

Nursey goes and sits by his captain.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just waits, hands clasped loosely together, looking at him.

“I’d thought there might be a good reason,” Nursey says finally. “That they’d given me and up and then not left future contact info. Like some sob story. _Whole family killed in terrible house fire. Only baby survived._ Or like. _Single mom killed in childbirth. No living relatives._ Something where it made sense, you know?”

Jack says nothing, just continues to look at him, expectant.

“Except that’s not what happened. What happened was two upper-middle-class catholic teenagers fooled around and got pregnant and neither one of their families wanted to deal with the social fallout of a baby under those circumstances. I got the story from—one of my cousins, I guess. I talked to her a few minutes ago. She was in the database already and after she got the email this morning she went and confronted my birth mother about the fact that apparently she’d had a baby at some point and never told anyone.”

“Oh.” Jack says. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So. I guess the secrets out to the extended family now. Whoops.”

It’s bitter.

_He’s_ bitter.

He thinks a little longingly about the tequila downstairs.

“That’s a lot," Jack says.

“And like. I get it. No judgement on not wanting to parent a kid as a teenager. Like. Fine. They clearly made the right choice because my parents are awesome. But it’s like they just gave me up and then pretended I never existed. They could have at least—Dex isn’t even Finley’s dad and he’s trying really fucking hard to make sure that he’s part of her life. That there’s a clear paper trail to find him if they get separated at some point in the future. She’s going to know that he _cared.”_

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “He’s really stepped up. And it sucks that your biological parents didn’t. Are they at all interested in resuming contact now?”

Nursey laughs without humor. “Doesn’t sound like it. The cousin might be—she seems pretty cool. Kinda like. Indignant on my behalf, you know? She’s at Yale. She said maybe we could meet up the next time I’m in New York. So that’s chill.”

“That is chill,” Jack agrees.

The term is so awkward, coming from him, that Nursey has to crack a brief smile.

“I guess I’m just pissed.”

“You’re allowed to be.”

“And like. I know I have abandonment issues or whatever. Anxiety about stuff like that. Except usually I just take a few shots and don’t think about it anymore but—“

“I noticed you haven’t been drinking the last few weeks,” Jack says slowly. “I didn’t want to make assumptions, but if you’re coming to talk to Bits instead of getting drunk, that’s a good thing. That’s—healthy.”

“Yeah. I told Dex I would stop. Except usually if I get—if I start feeling like I want to— I just go find him or call him or whatever and it distracts me. But he’s meeting with the Falcs GM right now and I can’t interrupt. And Ransom isn’t here. Or Lardo. And I thought Bitty might be, but—”

“I understand. I do the same thing.”

Nursey opens his mouth and then immediately closes it.

He consider’s Jack’s big blue eyes. The slightly embarrassed hitch to his mouth.

“You do what?” Nursey says.

“I have issues with anxiety. And um. Unhealthy ways of treating it. When it gets bad I usually come to Bitty and he’ll talk me down.”

“What if he’s not here?”

“Sometimes just sitting in his room helps.”

“Oh.”

Nursey considers Jack again.

Sitting on Bitty’s bed.

Waiting.

“ _Oh._ Are you, uh. Do you—“

“No, it’s ok. I’m good. I just had my own meeting with the Falcs GM this morning and I’m still kind of—I’ll be okay. I’m going to help Bitty study for his French quiz. That’ll make me feel better.”

“Okay. Well. If you ever need someone and Bitty isn’t there—“

“Thanks, Nursey. And Same. Do you—“

The door downstairs slams and the quick tread of Bitty’s feet on the stairs interrupts whatever Jack was going to say.

“I can go,” Jack says, “if you still want—“

“No. This helped, actually. Thanks.”

He stands, slipping out the door just as Bitty rounds the corner.

“Hey,” he says, “did you need something?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just talking to Jack.”

Bitty’s face brightens.

“Oh, I didn’t know he was waiting for me.”

Nursey grins and retreats to his own room. Except he still has Dex’s key, actually, and he thinks of what Jack said _“Sometimes just sitting in his room helps”_ and then suddenly he’s curled up on Dex’s bed, arms wrapped around one of his pillows.

He breathes in.

And out.

And in.

And out.

The door opens an indeterminable amount of time later. It closes so softly that he props himself up on one elbow, confused. Dex doesn’t do things softly.

“Hey,” Dex says.

His voice is soft too.

“Hey,” Nursey says, still confused.

Dex shrugs out of his jacket, presses toes to heels to remove his converse, and then climbs onto the bed, curling around Nursey in a cocoon of winter-outside-smell and the warm press of green-sweater-fabric.

Dex wiggles a cold hand up the back of Nursey’s sweatshirt.

“What are you doing?” he asks into Nursey’s forehead.

“Feeling things.”

“Ah. You want company?”

“You’ll probably make it worse.”

“That wasn’t a ‘no’.”

Nursey makes a resigned noise.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Talk to me,” Dex murmurs, breath warm against his face.

Nursey does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log: New semester starts next week and I'm teaching my comics class again! Hooray! I also have a bunch of deadlines coming up re prospectus stuff (I have to defend by the end of spring semester but I'm trying to fast-track that so I have at least a few weeks to work with my committee on dissertation organization before summer hits. I want to use as much of my summer for dissertation-writing as possible!) Anyway. The last few chapters may be a little sporadic but expect the next one by 19th! Good luck to anyone else starting back to school soon!


	24. Chapter 24

When Dex was fifteen, he slept next to another person for the first time.

Their midget team was on a road trip and the shitty motel they were staying in had run out of rooms and there weren’t enough roll-away beds. So 11pm on a Friday night found him back-to-back with Aaron Greenspan in a full-sized bed. Marky and Boots were sharing the other bed and Sebs was on a roll-away that mostly blocked the bathroom door.

Dex couldn’t sleep.

Because Greenie was warm and solid and slow-breathing behind him and he smelled like—well, Greenie. Except more than normal. _Closer_ than normal.

Greenie had chosen him when they’d all been arguing about who had to sleep with who. Greenie had _chosen_ him, shouting _I’ve got Dex_ as soon as coach stopped talking. And then he’d thrown his arm around Dex’s shoulders, as if to substantively stake his claim. Like Dex was something worth fighting over. Like he was a thing to be wanted.

And then they’d all eaten a hasty dinner and piled into their rooms and wrestled over remote controls until their coaches yelled them all into silence and darkness.

The other boys in the room fell asleep quickly but Dex couldn’t because his brain kept telling him that _Greenie was in the bed with him_ as if he wasn’t perfectly aware of that fact. And he kept remembering every time Greenie had shared that damn peanut butter spoon with him. And every time Greenie had loaned Dex his pilly wool scarf. And every time Greenie had shoved their helmets together, screaming through a smile after a goal.

So he laid there and let himself pretend, just for a few minutes, that Greenie liked him back. That they were sharing a bed because they _wanted_ to, not because they had to. And as he slipped sideways into sleep, he thought more abstractly about the future. That maybe, at some point, he would get to fall asleep next to someone who he maybe loved who also maybe loved him. That shared space and warmth and trust and maybe-love was something he could have one day.

Dex wakes up three years later to Derek Malik Nurse’s humid breath on the back of his neck, Nursey’s arms curled up between their bodies, knuckles pressed to the space between Dex’s shoulder blades, Nursey’s outside leg thrown over Dex’s hip.

He wakes up to grumbled discontent at the early hour, to reaching hands and the soft drag of palms down the terraced landscape of his ribs.

He wakes up to a persuasive mouth under his ear and slow kisses interspersed with laughter and what might very well be something close to _I love you_ trying to force its way from behind his clenched teeth.

Derek Malik Nurse— _being with_ Derek Malik Nurse—is everything he ever wanted. But now that he has it he isn’t sure what to do with it.

And he’s desperately afraid that he’s going to fuck it up.

Because Nursey knows how to do this. How to be a boyfriend. He knows when Dex needs to be left alone and when he needs to be distracted and when he needs quiet company. He edits Dex’s papers and shaves Dex’s head every two weeks and sneaks Dex’s laundry in with his so everything Dex owns smells like Nursey’s detergent. And Nursey still fucks up sometimes—less often than Dex does, obviously, because Dex is a mess—but when Nursey _does_ fuck up, when he pushes a friendly fight into unfriendly territory or turns down Dex’s music before he’s drowned out his thoughts enough or casually tries to pay for something that would take Dex months to save up for, Nursey also knows how to apologize. He knows how to talk about his damn feelings in a way that makes Dex talk about his own feelings without even meaning to. Nursey knows Dex in a way that no one else does. That no one else has ever cared enough to.

And, in return, Dex mostly just tries to make sure that Nursey gets enough healthy food to eat and goes to sleep at a reasonable hour on school nights and doesn’t make himself too crazy when he’s writing and Dex hopes that’s enough.

It doesn’t feel like enough, is the thing.

It doesn’t feel like enough for all the whatever he feels when he watches Nursey quietly carry on a full conversation with an enraptured Finely in his arms, head ducked, voice low, cadence soothing.

“Do you love him?” Lardo had asked the night before.

She’d caught him staring at Nursey in the den from the kitchen doorway like a creeper, something he’s been getting worse and worse about because he doesn’t have to hide it anymore.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” he’d snapped.

“An important one, assface. Is that a yes?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

She’d slapped his side with the back of her hand. Probably because she couldn’t reach his head.

“I think that’s a yes,” she said.

The slap turned into a brief series of pats.

“Whatever,” Dex said.

She’d just given him a knowing look.

He’s pretty sure it’s a yes.

Because it’s gotten to the point where the little things about Nursey that used to infuriate him now only further endear Nursey to Dex. His clumsiness off the ice. His seemingly innate political knowledge. His Opinions about everything from cream cheese to concussion protocols. Instead of finding Nursey’s bleary-eyed early-morning grumpiness obnoxious, Dex now sets his alarm five minutes early purely so he can let Nursey pull him back into the bed a few times before they actually get up. So he can run his fingers down Nursey’s clinging forearms. Slip his fingers through the divots of his knuckles. Trace the veins in the back of his hands.

“So do you have a hand kink, or what, Poindexter?” Nursey mumbles into Dex’s neck. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you feeling up my knuckles every morning.”

Dex is thankful for the semi-darkness because his ears are undoubtedly going pink.

“No.”

“No? It’s okay if you do. No judgement. I’ve got a bit of a weird thing for your wrists myself, so.”

Dex laughs and presses his mouth—not a kiss, just. Whatever—to one of Nursey’s palms.

“It’s not a hand thing. It’s a…skin. Thing. I guess.”

Nursey goes very still behind him.

“Okay?”

“It’s just. My skin is all splotchy and awful and, I dunno. Yours is—“ he lets his thumb travel from Nursey’s knuckles to tendons to wrist bone. “Smooth. Soft. Dark.” _It’s okay to be sweet,_ he reminds himself.“Beautiful.”

Nursey doesn’t say anything and Dex reconsiders his words, wondering if he’s done something wrong.

“Is that not—am I allowed to say that? That I think your skin is beautiful?

“Yeah," Nursey says. Quiet. Like maybe it hurts. He sits up and then leans over, kissing the ball of Dex’s bare shoulder, where he knows there’s a heavy cluster of freckles.

“For what it’s worth,” Nursey says, “I think your skin is beautiful too.”

Dex’s second alarm goes off and he’s never been more grateful to escape to the bathroom.

“So,” Nursey says casually as they’re brushing their teeth. “Spring break starts tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Dex agrees.

“Maura is coming to the game on Friday. She’ll get here Thursday and stay for the weekend. And before you get mad about me paying for her to come or whatever I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for me. Because Maura is rad we need to have a conversation about why the Habs are a terrible team and she should reconsider her life choices. I’m taking her out to dinner Thursday night. You can come with us if you want.”

“I can—“ Dex spits into the sink. “What the _fuck_ , Nurse?

He is not awake enough to deal with this.

“Oh and speaking of dinner,” Nursey continues, “You know my parents are here for the weekend as well? They were hoping you would come out to eat with us on Saturday. I know you’re not working because we were going to see Finley but would you mind if we did an early dinner before going to see her? My parents chose a restaurant right next to the hospital so we could do one and then the other.”

Dex turns off the sink.

“Your parents want to meet me? They want to meet _Finley_?”

“Well, yeah.”

Nursey is looking at him in the mirror like he’s an idiot. “You and Finley are pretty much all I talk about on my phone calls with my mom, now, so."

Dex is so distracted by the prospect of meeting Nursey’s parents, having _dinner_ with Nursey’s parents and then _introducing Nursey’s parents to Finley_ that he forgets to be mad about the Maura thing.

“Wait. Can Maura come to dinner and the hospital too?” Dex asks, maybe a little desperate. “She’ll still be here Saturday night, right?”

“I guess,” Nursey says with a smug little smile that means this had been his intention all along. "I mean, if you want, that’s fine with me.”

The coniving bastard.

“I hate you,” Dex says.

Nursey ignores him because they’re both fully aware it’s not true.

***

Dex has to work Thursday. He wouldn’t have if he’d known about Maura’s visit in advance, and he might have called in sick anyway, except Benny really _is_ sick and can only work for so long before he starts hacking up a lung. So Nursey drops Dex off at the garage with a kiss through the open window and then goes to pick Maura up from the airport. Dex helps Benny finish an engine rebuild, sends him home to sleep, and then gets to work on all the things he can do by himself: fixing tailights and changing oil and putting on new tires and figuring out why the roof of a little Miata is leaking. It’s good, simple, work. Sweat and music and habitual movements. And yeah, he wishes he could spend the day with Nursey and Maura but he’s also stressed about the upcoming game because several scouts will be there and there’s nothing like physical exertion to clear his head.

The only problem is that Nursey has been a little worryingly uncommunicative since informing Dex he had collected Maura from the airport and they were off to “explore”—whatever that meant.

Ever since Dex upgraded his phone to unlimited texting, Nursey sends him shit _all the time_. Photographs. Music. Dumb haikus. Passing observations. But his phone has been distinctly silent for hours.

Once the sun has set, Dex is trying to decide if he should be worried or pissed.

Which is when a very familiar-sounding vehicle pulls up outside the garage.

By the time Dex manages to wiggle his way out from under the hood of the Chevy he’s working on, Nursey and Maura have ducking under the half-open bay.

“Hey kid,” Maura says.

She’s still wearing her ever-present Habs hat, so clearly Nursey’s campaign is ongoing.

She looks good. All plaid and work-worn jeans and a wide sharp smile.

And Nursey has fucked him up with all his casual touching and easy affection because his first instinct is to hug her.

He gives her a fistbump instead.

“Hey,” he says.

“Told you he’d be pissed,” Maura says to Nursey. “You should have texted him.”

“I’m not pissed,” Dex argues.

“You are,” they both say.

Dex rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and kicking at the toes of Nursey’s boots.

“I can’t help it if this asshole usually texts me eighty times a day. It’s weird when he goes silent.”

“Aw,” Nursey says with a shit-eating grin. “Were you _worried_?”

“ _No_.”

Nursey sidles up next to him in a way that means he wants a kiss but he doesn’t actually go for one and Dex realizes it’s probably because Maura is there and he’s trying to gauge how comfortable Dex is with showing affection in front of her.

Which is sweet, but not really necessary, and now it means that Dex has to be the one to initiate things which is…not ideal.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Maura says, perceptive as always. “Just kiss him. I’m not a nun. Though. Interesting story—“

“No,” Dex says.

“Uh. Nun story? _Yes,”_ Nursey says.

“It’s not an interesting story,” Dex says, ignoring Maura’s affronted noise. “The woman _wasn’t_ a nun yet. You can’t go around bragging that you’ve banged a nun when the vow of chastity was the next day.”

“Wait. You were a nun’s last hurrah?” Nursey asks Maura. “That’s almost more impressive. And negates any residual guilt for your listener in enjoying it.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Hm.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dex says, throwing an elbow into Nursey’s side.

He also tips his head to the side a little. Just to make his face more inviting. Available. Should Nursey be interested in taking advantage of the easy access.

Nursey obliging leans in to kiss him.

Dex pretends this does not placate him.

“Any reason why you’re here?” Dex asks. “I thought you two were going to dinner. And ignoring me.”

Nursey grins, kissing him again in a way that seems more mocking than affectionate.

Dex allows it anyway.

“I was giving you distraction-free time to work, as you so often request.”

Dex can’t really argue with that.

“I was also trying not to ruin the surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“Well, if you couldn’t go to dinner with us, we decided to bring dinner to you.”

He gestures with a flourish to the beat up canvas bag over Maura’s shoulder.

“Uh. Okay?”

“Oh shit,” Maura says. “That was my cue. We probably should have practiced that.”

She unzips her bag and Dex is immediately hit with the gloriously unhealthy smell of hamburgers from the diner on the opposite side of the hardware store. The place has eternally sticky vinyl booths and the best strawberry milkshakes Dex has ever tasted.

“Milkshakes are in the car,” Nursey murmurs in his ear.

Dex tries to stifle a grin.

“I don’t think hamburgers are on our meal plan,” he says.

Maura throws a greasy paper-wrapped burger at his face.

Nursey pulls Dex down to sit on a pair of recently removed tires, passing him some fries, while Maura goes to retrieve the shakes. When she returns, she unwraps her own burger and wanders around, poking at tool carts and ducking under the Chevy’s hood with a considering noise.

“Shouldn’t take us long to finish these up,” she says. “What’s the Miata in for?”

Dex licks mustard off his fingers, then winces because his hands are not exactly clean. “Leak in the roof, and what do you mean _we_?”

“Well, of the three of us, I’m the only one with ASE certification. I’m not about to leave my baby nephew to work the night away when, with my expertise, we could finish together in an hour or so.”

“You’re here on vacation,” Dex argues.

“I’m not. I’m here to see you. Which I’ll be doing.”

“Nursey said you’re here to see him.”

“Nursey was lying. But if it makes you feel better, since Nursey is the one that funded my trip, you can pay _him_ back for my services.” She raises an innocent eyebrow. “In whatever form of compensation you prefer.”

Nursey shoves a very large handful of french fries in his mouth. The subsequent choking noise he makes could either be from muffled laughter or actual choking.

“I think that’s called prostitution,” Dex says.

“Not if you’d do it for free anyway.”

Dex can feel his ears going red.

“Why don’t you tell your nun story,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Good(?) news--I've added more chapters to the final count. Because of course. I honestly do think 28 is accurate because we've nearly reached the end. It definitely won't exceed 30. Definitely. 
> 
> Bad news--I have a bunch of deadlines coming up next week, no more chapters written, and won't get a chance to write again until after the 25th. So I don't know when I'll be able to update next but it probably won't be until around the 29/30th. Apologies. The good news is that I shouldn't be slammed with work like this again until the end of the semester so I should be able to keep up a weekly update schedule from that point until the story is finished. Thanks for your patience and all the comments. I promise I'll start responding to comments again once my life is no longer the embodiment of the "This is fine" meme. 
> 
> In teaching news, I think I've got a great bunch of students for this semester's comics course. About half are previous students and I was really pleased with everyone's engagement during the first class. Several of them have already turned in homework on His Face All Red (if you're not familiar you can find it here: https://emcarroll.com/comics/faceallred/01.html) despite it not being due until Monday morning, and there's a nice variety of responses/interpretations of it so far. My job is the coolest. 
> 
> Anyway, see you in 10-15 days! I'll probably post on Tumblr when the update will be once I have a better idea of my workload next weekend (I'm xiaq there as well).


	25. Chapter 25

Nursey’s parents arrive the following morning.

He drops Dex and Maura off at the garage just after practice and then drives to the airport. His mother already has their morning planned out—brunch, shopping, sight-seeing, lunch, then back to the dorms for his pre-game nap.

He offers his arm to her and carries her bags and maybe talks too much and too long when she asks how Dex and Finley are doing but she just smiles softly at him and makes him try on a shirt that brings out his eyes.

His father asks questions about his grades, his writing, the team, where he plans to live for the next year during his writer’s workshop— _Oh, his mother says, you love writing in Colorado. We could all spend some time there next year—_ and Nursey answers all but the last because. Well. He doesn’t know.

Because saying he wants to wait until after the draft—after he knows where Dex will be—to decide where _he_ wants to be is.

A lot.

More than he wants to admit to himself, much less to anyone else.

He drops his parents off at their hotel after lunch and then collects Dex from the garage.

Maura elects to stay a while longer and help Benny with his personal motorcycle project because apparently they’ve become best friends over the last few hours, and Nursey drives Dex back to the dorms in contented silence, hands linked on top of the center console.

He doesn’t ask if they’re napping together because of course they’re napping together and Dex waits as Nursey leaves his shopping bags in his room, leaning against the wall between their doors in a way that is infuriatingly sexy. Mostly because he has no idea how sexy it is.

Nursey waves to Chowder, already in bed, and shuts the door.

Dex gets out his own key.

“Hey so,” Dex says quietly, eyes on his hands, intentionally casual in a way that makes Nursey immediately suspicious. “Can we revisit that orgasm conversation we had?”

Nursey’s brain goes offline for a hot second.

“You realize we can’t _actually_ make a baby,” he says.

“I—“ Dex pauses, blinking at the non sequitur.“What?”

Sometimes Nursey forgets that Dex isn’t in his head. It’s starting to feel like he is most days, is the thing.

He backtracks.

“I’m just saying. You start spending all this time with an infant that looks like us and suddenly you’re interested in making sweet sweet love to me?”

Dex makes a face that can only be called tormented.

“Yeah, definitely not sudden and please don’t ever call it that again.”

Nursey considers this.

“Not sudden?” he repeats.

Dex shoves at the door a little and then jiggles the key in the lock.

“Did you miss me trying to fucking jump you the first time we kissed or—“

“Well yeah, but you haven’t tried to do anything more than kiss me since then despite the fact that we’re _literally_ sleeping together and half the time I end up like, sleep-humping you in the night.”

“You said you weren’t ready!” Dex whisper-shouts. He’s turning a really lovely shade of red. “And that’s not—what you do in your sleep isn’t a—a—“ he gestures wordlessly for a second “—an indication of consent!”

Shitty would be proud.

Dex crosses his arms. “I was trying to respect your fucking boundaries or whatever.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he snaps.

“Okay. Just so it’s clear,” Nursey says. “I’m on the same page as my dick. My sleeping dick. Well. I guess it’s awake in this context, but—“

Jack comes around the corner. Lardo is on his back wearing sunglasses.

They all just sort of stand there for a breath.

“I don’t want to know,” Jack says.

“I do,” Lardo says.

Dex viciously twists the key and the door pops open.

“Uh,” Nursey says.

Dex pulls Nursey into Dex’s room and slams the door.

Dex face-plants onto the bed with an aggrieved noise.

Nursey, uncertain of his welcome, takes off his jacket and shoes and waits for Dex to say something.

Dex rolls over after a minute, face still pink, scowling.

“What are you doing? Get over here.”

Nursey joins him on the bed.

“So, that was mortifying,” Dex says.

“If you recall, Jack announced to the entire team that he thinks Bitty’s dick is perfect. This definitely ranked below that. Well below.”

“Point.”

Dex sits up, kicking off his shoes and wiggling out of his jeans. He reaches for the hem of his henley and hikes it up over his head.

“So,” he says from the interior of the shirt, “Sex?”

And that’s a really unfair thing for Dex to ask when he’s mostly-naked and still delightfully flushed—flushed all down his freckled chest to winter-pale belly.

“Yes,” Nursey says. “Please.”

Dex laughs at him, which, rude.

Nursey takes off his own clothes in retaliation.

Dex stops laughing.

“I’m serious,” Dex says. “This is—I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. So we don’t fuck things up.”

“Yeah. No. That’s good. I’m good with whatever. Do you, like, know what you want to do, or—?”

Dex shifts over, back to the wall, arms slung around his knees.

“No? I mean. I think I’ll like pretty much anything we do. Because. It’s you. But if not we can figure it out together? I trust you.”

Nursey has to take a minute.

He knows a declaration of love when he hears one.

“Is that cool?” Dex asks. He looks a little concerned. Probably because Nursey is just sitting there like a potato. “I mean. You’re still into me, right?”

Nursey is so, _so_ , into him.

He wants to touch him everywhere all at once.

He wants to tattoo his name on the elegant line of Dex’s scapula.

He wants to suck dark bruises onto the thin skin of his wrists, to mark the blue veins there as his.

He doesn’t say that.

He says: “Yes.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Good. So. We’ll do that, then.” Nursey confirms. “Sex things.”

God. He’s a disaster.

“Yeah.” Dex bites his lip. “But not, uh, right now. Because. Game tonight. And we need to nap.”

“Right. Yeah. Obviously.”

Dex might be laughing at him.

***

They win the game because of course they do.

Because there are scouts in the stands and Jack’s and Chowder’s and Ransom’s and Holsters’ parents are all there as well as Nursey’s parents and Maura.

Ransom makes one goal.

Dex makes two.

Jack makes three.

When the final buzzer sounds, Nursey and Dex are on the ice. They end up in the center of the team pile, Nursey’s face crammed awkwardly into Dex’s sweaty neck, helmet no doubt pressing a hard indentation into his forehead.

He winces as someone’s glove-heavy hand slaps the top of his helmet, listening to Shitty yell about victory. He meets Dex’s eyes through the cages of their face masks, grinning.

“Only two?” Nursey asks Dex a minute later, as they’re skating for the exit. “Couldn’t go for the hat trick when Maura came all this way? You’re letting Jack show you up.”

“Well maybe if you’d passed the puck to _me_ instead of Jack, asshole.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Nursey says genially.

“Fuck me yourself, you coward.”

Nursey trips on his skates.

“Oh shit,” Dex says. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Nursey says, scrambling back to his feet, helmet askew. “And, _fine._ Maybe I will.”

“Maybe you’ll—? Oh. Well. Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Maybe revisit this conversation later,” Jack suggests.

When they all emerge from the locker room, the atrium of the ice house is full of people. Nursey watches as Dex finds Maura in the crowd—face lit up with pride.

“Holy shit, kid,” Maura says, hitting his chest with the back of one hand. “You were good before but _now_ —“

“It’s all Nursey.”

“It’s not. But it’s cute you’d say that.”

“I’m not— _no.”_

Nursey decides to make his presence known, knocking his shoulder into Dex’s. “Wow, Poindexter, what’s got you all flushed?”

“My fault,” Maura says.

Nursey fist-bumps her. “Well thanks for that. I love it when he goes all pink. Nursey tugs on one of Dex’s ears. “Is’ cute.”

“I am _not,_ ” Dex says, slapping him away.

Nursey smooshes a disgusting sloppy-wet kiss to his still-sweaty temple.

“You are. Don’t worry. It’s chill. Oh, hey, there’s my parent’s, can we—Dad!“

They change direction, his mom actually, literally, bouncing with excitement.

“Baby!” She says, throwing her arms around his neck. “You did so well!”

His dad goes for a less-exuberant shoulder-pat.

“And you!” his mom says to Dex.

“Me?” Dex says.

“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Come here and let me hug you.”

Dex hunches a little to facilitate it, blinking, baffled, at Nursey, his hands hovering over her back.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you too?”

His mom steps back to beam at them both and then turns to address Nursey.

“Oh sweetheart,” she says. “The pictures you sent didn’t do him justice. You were right about the blushing, it’s very cute.” She turns to Nursey’s dad. “Isn’t he cute, Elric?”

“So cute,” his dad agrees stoically.

Dex makes a noise like a very small, very annoyed, garbage disposal.

Nursey slips his hand into Dex’s and squeezes, trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly.

Dinner is good.

Maura and his dad bond over their love of shitty hockey teams and then Maura and his mom bond over Maura’s badass feminist lobster boat crew. And his parents keep directing the conversation toward Dex—his grades, his interests, his plans for the future—which Dex stutters his way through answering, anxious like it’s a job interview and not a five star dining experience. Nursey keeps a steadying hand on his thigh and tries to run interference and by dessert Maura has taken up the cause as well, regaling them with stories about Dex as a five and eight and twelve year old. Dex on his first summer lobster haul. Dex playing Princess Star Warriors with Piper and Nicolaus Copernicus.

The hospital visit, afterward, is—

Really good.

There’s a line to get Nursey’s parents and Maura visitor badges. Dex and Nursey are a little spoiled with the freedom their permanent IDs give them, proffering their lanyards, more out of habit than actual necessity, since they know most of the security officers by name now.

But once everyone is checked in they talk them through the importance of hand washing and gown-wearing and Nursey tells Maura seriously that she better take off her habs cap just to be safe. Because germs.

Maura rolls her eyes at him but obeys, stowing it, brim down, in her back pocket. Nursey nudges Dex, grinning, and Dex rolls his eyes too.

Rude.

Dex uses his badge to fob them into the cardiac NICU and then—

Then they’re in Finley’s section.

And there she is.

Nursey’s parents and Maura all have initial reactions to her that are similar to Nursey and Dex's, which is gratifying.

Amy comes over to introduce herself, but mostly leaves them to their own devices, sharing a knowing look with Nursey as Dex explains the rules about sitting down while holding Finley and navigating her various wires and tubes and keeping her wrapped in her special phototherapy blanket that’s helping with her jaundice.

Finley sleeps through most of their visit.

Nursey’s mom gets a turn holding her first, Dex hovering closely at her shoulder. He relaxes pretty quickly once it becomes clear that A. his mom probably isn’t going to suddenly yeet the baby across the room and B. Finley is completely conked out. Maura declines holding her, citing her preference for tiny humans who are capable of speech, though she does run one knuckle very, very, gently down the pudgy slope of Finley’s cheek, smiling softly. Nursey’s dad happily accepts her next, carefully tucking her blanket around her, eyeing the monitors suspiciously, before adjusting the little hat on her head and telling her a story about the first time he ever held Nursey.

Nursey is not a fan of this story.

It involves a lot of screaming and fecal matter.

Dex, however, is charmed.

Finley wakes, briefly, when another baby starts crying, and the minute her little face squinches up, Nursey is moving forward automatically, pulling up another chair so he can take her from his dad in a series of well-practiced movements, shifting her up so her face is in his neck and she can burrow in the way she likes, under his chin, one tiny hand bunched in the crinkly fabric of his gown.

She still can’t seem to decide if she wants to yell for a bit or go back to sleep. Dex couches next to them a moment later with a freshly sanitized pacifier and pops it into her mouth, careful around the cannula for her apnea— _she’s been off the CPAP for a week now with no issues,_ Nursey tells his parents proudly—and they all watch as her eyebrows lose their furrow and she settles. She bumps the crown of her head under Nursey’s chin a few times. She blinks slowly at Dex who stays where he is, leaned back on his heels, braced with one hand on Nursey’s thigh.

“Maybe you should sing to her,” Nursey says, “that always gets her back to sleep fast.”

Dex flushes.

“You _sing_ to her?” Maura asks, looking euphoric.

“Oh, how sweet,” Nursey’s mom says. “Elric used to sing to Derek. He’s no good, of course, but a little off-key Beatles would usually do the trick regardless.”

Dex glances up at Nursey, grinning, hand still on his thigh, squeezing a little. “Yeah? Maybe you should try some Beatles this time.”

“Yeah, no.”

Dex stands and Nursey misses him.

“Nursey tried singing to her once,” Dex tells his parents, soto voice. “It didn’t work out. There was vomit involved.”

“Completely unrelated,” Nursey mutters, returning his attention to Finley. “Wasn’t it, Finley? Say yes, completely.”

She closes her eyes.

The soft glow from the phototherapy blanket makes her little face a study in shadows. Makes her look like a painting in blues. Everything about her is beautiful. The purse of her lips. The swoop of her nose. There’s something completely captivating about her eyelashes that Nursey has yet to manage to put into words, but he keeps trying.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he glances back up, but Maura and his mother and Dex have moved on to discussing Finley’s upcoming surgery.

His dad, though.

His dad is looking at him, hands in the pockets of his slacks, head tipped a little, a completely uninterpretable expression on his face.

They leave shortly afterward, but instead of just dropping Maura and Nursey’s parents off at the hotel, his mother insists that Nursey walk them up to their room.

So he hugs Maura and makes a judgmental comment about the return of her habs hat and leaves Dex in the car knowing that his parents have Things to Discuss with him.

He’s expecting them to express support, or maybe gentle concern, about his relationship with Dex. After all, he’s pretty sure its abundantly clear how gone he is for Dex and that’s certainly never something that’s happened before. What he’s not expecting is for his mother to say:

“Oh, sweetheart. You didn’t tell me Dex wanted to adopt Finley.”

“He…doesn’t?”

His mother raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Dex looks at that baby girl like she’s his. Talks about her like she’s his. Treats her like she’s his. She _is_ his.”

“What? No. He’s—she’s not. He knows that.”

“Sweetheart.”

“He’s _seventeen_ ,” Nursey says.

“He’s almost eighteen. And he’s going to be a professional hockey player by this time next year,” his dad points out.

“If anything, I think that makes him less qualified to be a teenage parent.”

His mom sighs at him like he’s intentionally vexing her.

“Your father looked at you the exact same way that Dex looks at Finley. The _exact_ same. From the day you were first put screaming into his arms. He still looks at you that way sometimes.”

“Honey,” his dad says lowly.

“I’m just saying,” she insists. “You might want to mention Amanda to Dex.”

And that gives Nursey a pause.

Because.

“Amanda? But you guys didn’t—oh. _Oh.”_

“And you might want to think about how serious you are about this. About him. Long-term serious, I mean,” she says. “ _Dating a father_ , serious, I mean.”

“Honey,” his dad says again.

His parents do that thing where they have a conversation without any words.

“I’m going to go fill up the ice bucket,” his mom says suddenly. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She kisses his cheek and leaves the room a moment later.

“Derek,” his dad says. And he’s using his _dad_ voice.

“Your mother might have been too busy spying on Dex and Finley to notice, but I pay attention too.”

Nursey honestly has no idea where he’s going with this. “Okay?”

“ _You_ look at Finley the same way Dex does.”

Nursey swallows.

“I’m not going to say anything else about it, now. You need to make decisions for yourself and you’ve proven you’re more than capable of doing so in the last few years. But before you let this go any further, you need to be certain. Or as certain as you can be in the circumstances. Not just for you, but for both of them, too.”

Nursey doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what _to_ say.

“Just know that we’re here to support you. Whatever you might need.Or whatever you and Dex might need. At some point. If it comes to that.”

His dad pulls him forward, kissing his forehead. “Regardless, I’m proud of you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He agrees. “Breakfast. Good.”

He walks back to the car on autopilot, trying and failing to act normal on the ride home.

Because he’s not—how could his dad think that—he doesn’t want to be Finley’s _father_.

Does he?

Like. Sure, he definitely loves her. And cares about her. And worries about her. But that’s normal. She’s a tiny baby. Tiny babies inspire those kinds of feelings. And she’s a tiny, sick, baby who’s related to Dex, who looks weirdly like the two of them, so that’s—that.

And watching Dex with Finley definitely makes him feel some type of way.

Like a having-kids-with-Dex-one-day-might-be-nice type of way.

But that’s a fantasy. A _many years in the future_ kind of fantasy.

Right?

And sure, maybe his browser is currently half-full of youtube tabs on easy styles and hair maintenance for toddlers with Finley’s curl type. Despite the fact that it’ll be another year before she even has enough hair for any of the styling videos. But it’s always good to be prepared. And what if she ends up getting adopted by white parents? 

Nursey could visit, maybe. And help them figure hair things out.

And maybe he’s checked out more library books on infant development than books for his actual classes in the last month, but that’s only because he found a list of them scribbled on Dex’s desk and he knew that Dex didn’t have any extra time to read with his schedule. So when Dex is at work Nursey does the reading for him, takes some notes, and then gives Dex the breakdown later so they can know if Finley isn’t meeting benchmarks. And they can talk to Amy about ways to increase her motor function despite the limitations she has and—

Oh god.

Okay.

He might get where his dad is coming from.

Shit.

He needs to talk to Dex about Amanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry for the delay! I've been sick (still am, really, but no longer a feverish zombie).
> 
> If you're becoming concerned about how Wise these boys might be going forward, don't worry! It ends idealistically but realistically (mostly). You'll understand next chapter. :)
> 
> Speaking of next chapter. BIG THINGS are going to happen. Things will be said. Feelings will be felt. Are you ready?? 
> 
> Anyway, expect the next update by Wed/Thurs next week. 
> 
> Also the "fuck me yourself" unabashedly stolen from the various memes on Tumblr.


	26. Chapter 26

They don’t have sex.

Dex doesn’t know why, except that when Nursey comes back to the car after dropping off his parents, he has a sort of vacant look on his face that’s concerning. He tells Dex his parents are supportive and approve and then he bullies Dex into bed and wraps around him, even more constricting than usual, and keeps taking these long, careful, breaths.

After submitting himself to fifteen minutes of anxious cuddling, Dex shoves Nursey off of him and curls around his back, pushes a hand up Nursey’s shirt and then he just sort of pets his stomach in a way that Nursey seems to find soothing.

Eventually, Nursey’s breathing evens out and he stops being a live wire of tension and Dex can finally go the fuck to sleep.

In the morning, Nursey acts like everything is fine and normal and they’re meeting Nursey’s parents, as well as Jack’s parents and Jack and Bitty, for breakfast at the diner, so they don’t have a chance to talk. And Nursey still seems normal. He keeps his arm slung over the back of the booth behind Dex’s neck, leaning into him and stealing food off his plate.

After they eat, they pick up Maura to take her to the airport and they hold hands on the center console while Maura meetsDex’s eyes in the rearview mirror and makes faces at him.

It’s worth it, the hand-holding.

Once they’ve pulled to the curb at departures and unloaded Maura’s suitcase, Maura hugs Dex.

Dex just stands there.

“Uh. What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like, asshole? Nursey says I should hug you more.”

“Nursey is—“

“The light of your life?” Nursey supplies, joining the hug. “The fire in your loins?”

“Ugh,” Maura quickly exits the hug.

“If you ever want me to touch your dick,” Dex says lowly, “you will never say the word ‘loins’ to me again.”

“Noted,” Nursey agrees.

They hold hands on the drive back to campus too, and Nursey keeps throwing him these sweet little half-smile glances. Dex doesn’t know how to bring up the fact that they said they were going to have sex and then _didn’t_ when everything else seems fine. Because what if it starts an argument? Or what if Nursey is like. Planning something fancy? What if he’s one of those people that has _romantic ideas_ about first times? Oh god. What if there are rose petals or special playlists involved? That seems like the kind of ridiculous shit Nursey would pull.

Then again, it’s Dex’s room.

Shit.

Should _he_ be planning something?

What even goes on a sex playlist?

His mind is occupied with potential sex playlist contenders for most of the afternoon, while they do some sightseeing with Nursey’s parents in Boston, visit Finley again, and then go to dinner.

Except only minutes after they’ve sat down and Nursey is whisper-translating the french menu to him, his phone rings.

It’s Amy.

He answers it at the table, immediately assuming the worst, because he was _just_ there—there’s no reason for her to call him unless something is wrong.

“Is she okay?”

“Whoa, hey. No, she’s fine.”

Dex exhales, sitting from the half-standing position he’d been in.

“Then what—“

“I just spoke to Finley’s social worker. You only missed her by a few minutes or I would have grabbed you while you were still here.”

“Oh. Okay?”

“As you know, Finley’s surgery next week should hopefully allow her to leave the hospital once she’s recovered.”

“Yeah?”

“So her social worker has started the process of finding Finley a foster for when that happens.”

“Oh.”

“And,” Amy says gently, “she’s started the process of finding Finley an adoptive family.”

“Oh,” he says again.

Or. He tries to say it. Except he doesn’t actually make any noise.

Because it feels like someone has a hand fisted around his throat.

“I know you’ll want to be a part of the process and considering the glowing assessment of you the hospital’s social worker gave her, she’s looking forward to hearing from you. I know she’ll try to make sure you’re as involved as possible.”

He tries to swallow around the—panic? No. This isn’t panic. This is something worse than that. Anger, maybe. Jealousy. Tempered by guilt because Finley getting out the hospital is a _good_ thing. Finley getting a family is a _good_ thing. Except she fucking _has_ a family, she has _him_ and—

“Dex?” Amy says. “Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah,” he manages.

“Anyway. I told her I’d give you her number so you two can coordinate. Do you have a pen?”

He doesn’t.

He dutifully records the number with disconcertingly steady hands in his phone’s notepad.

He repeats it back to her blankly.

She confirms it is correct.

He should probably say thank you.

“Thank you.”

“Dex?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. That’s—“

He swallows again and it’s even harder this time. “That’s good news.”

“Dex.”

“I’ve got to go.”

He hangs up.

He stands.

“Sorry,” he says, and Nursey is looking up at him, eyes wide and concerned. “Sorry. Everything’s fine, I just. Need to go. I’m sorry.”

Dex leaves.

He knows Nursey is going to come after him. And that’s gratifying, in its own way, but for once he actually doesn’t want Nursey to try and make things better. Because he can’t fix this. And Dex doesn’t think—he can’t—

Dex runs.

Like some kind of dramatic asshole in a film-festival drama.

He weaves his way through a few different streets by way of a few different back alleys until he has absolutely no idea where he is and then he calls for an Uber.

Sitting in the back seat, spending money he doesn’t have, he leans his head against the window and tries very hard not to cry.

He doesn’t go back to the dorms because he doesn’t want Nursey to find him.

Or he doesn’t for a couple hours, at least.

He starts wanting Nursey to find him right around the fourth shot of vodka.

Except he’s done too good a job of disappearing.

And he’s.

Well, he’s drunk.

For the first time ever.

He hates himself a little for that.

He breaks down and calls Nursey a beer or three later and he hates himself a little for that too.

“Where are you?” Nursey says after the second ring. “Are you okay?”

His voice is low and flinty.

Dex gives him the name of the shitty bar and then goes to sit on the curb by the dumpster.

He wishes he wasn’t wasted because he knows the conversation they’re about to have will be even shittier now than it would have been if he was sober.

Also, his head hurts.

He wishes, for once, that he looked his age. That he didn’t have height and hockey muscle and the sharp edges of someone who’s worked for every crumpled one dollar bill they fish out of their pocket to buy shots. Maybe then he’d just be a miserable, sober, seventeen-year-old sitting on a curb having an existential crisis instead of a miserable drunk one.

Nursey looks furious when he parks the Land Rover beside him a few minutes later.

He slams the door.

Definitely furious.

“I was so fucking worried about you,” he says. “What the _fuck_?”

Dex tries to shrug.

He wobbles a little.

“You’ve been drinking,” Nursey points out. “You don’t do that.”

“I want to adopt Finley,” Dex says.

Nursey sits down next to him.

“I can drop out,” he continues, voice even despite everything. “Start working more at the garage. Get a second job at the coffee shop or something. Find an apartment in town.”

“No you _won’t_ ,” Nursey says.

“Funny how it’s not your decision.”

“Dex. First of all, the state is not going to award custody of a disabled kid to a seventeen-year-old high school drop out, even if you are emancipated. But besides that, I know you don’t want to raise Finley poor.”

“The fuck are you—“

“You want to raise her with plenty of money for specialists and therapy and private preschools. I know you do. You want to spoil her rotten. Give her everything you never had.”

“Of course I do,” Dex says. His voice breaks and he doesn’t even care. “But I don’t see—“

“You’re being projected as going early in the second round of the draft. And we all know you’d be higher if you’d been playing in juniors or had any kind of recognition before this year. You almost play at _Jack’s_ level and he’s probably going _first_. You are going to make _actual real money_ as a professional athlete.”

Dex can feel the tears that have been building for hours, hot, behind his eyes, finally push out into the open air. They cling to his lashes. They smear on his palms.

Because that—playing in the NHL, _making_ something of himself is all he’s ever wanted.

Until Finley.

“The draft isn’t for another three months, though,” he says, voice wrecked. “And the season won’t start for another two months after that and even then I can’t—“ Dex sniffs, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes again. “I can’t take care of a baby as a rookie in the NHL.”

Nursey shifts so he’s no longer on the curb, but kneeling in front of Dex.

Dex resists the urge to tell him that he’s ruining his jeans.

They’re a pretty pale mustard color.

Dex likes them.

“Hey. Dex,” Nursey rests his hands, gentle and earnest, on Dex’s bent knees. “Look at me.”

Dex looks at Nursey.

“If you’re working two jobs to make ends meet, you’re going to have even less time with her than you would as a professional hockey player” he says. “Even if the surgery goes perfectly, she still needs to be at the hospital for a couple more weeks, at least. And after that, long term fosters are a thing, you know. And they’re a thing for a reason. I actually—my parents fostered a kid before me.”

Dex blinks.

His brain feels slow and hot.

“What?”

“My parents were long term fosters for a little girl before me. Amanda. They got her as an infant because her teenage mother was homeless. Kicked out for being pregnant. So they took care of Amanda for nearly two years while her mother got her life together. And once she’d finished high school and got a job they slowly transitioned her back. She’d just stay weekends with her mom at first, then longer stretches. By the time she was three, she was living full-time with her. They got me shortly afterward.”

“I don’t—“ Dex considers this. “Do they still keep in touch with her?

“They do. They saw her in person once a month or so until I was around four. They have pictures of us together. But then her mom got married and they moved. They’re all still friends on facebook. Talk on the phone. My parents helped pay for her college.”

“Casual.”

Nursey rolls his eyes. “My point is. Talk to the caseworker. You’re kin and have a good case for delayed guardianship. You can get a foster who will work with you until you’ve settled with a team. Until you’re through the first year or two and know you aren’t going to be sent back down to the AHL. Until you have a house. A room for her. Your options aren’t  _right now_  or  _not at all_.”

“Even then,” Dex says. “Even if I wait a year or two, that’s—I can’t be in the NHL and take care of a kid alone. Not when I’ll be traveling a third of the year. That’s not fair to her.”

“Maybe not alone,” Nursey says. But it’s not agreement. It’s. Something a lot bigger than that.

“Fuck you. You can’t just—“

“I love you,” Nursey says and it’s like a punch to the gut.

“I know it’s probably a shitty way to say it for the first time but I do. Love you. And I love her. And I don’t know what I want to do with my life but I know I don’t want to play professional hockey. And I’m taking the next year off to write. And hopefully I’ll win some fancy awards and maybe publish some shit and just… keep writing. And I can write anywhere. And Finley— I know taking care of a kid is hard. Especially a kid with special needs. I’m not like. Romanticizing it. But if this is something you want to do, and you do it smart, without killing yourself of throwing away your career or fucking off to drink yourself stupid—“

Dex winces.

“And maybe you talk to a therapist about it—“

Dex winces harder.

Nursey sighs. “I guess I’m just saying that. I’m in. If you’re in.”

“So what,” Dex says. “You’re volunteering to follow me wherever I go in the draft? Maybe move a couple times while I bust my ass in the AHL and hope to be permanently called-up somewhere? And even if I am, then you’ll—what? Be a stay-at-home dad for a kid that isn’t even yours?” It starts off abrasive as hell but ends almost plaintive.

“Yeah,” Nurse says. “That’s exactly what I’m volunteering for. And she _would_ be mine. If you’d let me have her.”

Dex can’t handle that right now.

“You just want to be my kept man,” he chokes out.

Nursey laughs.

It sounds a little damp but who is Dex to judge.

“It’s true,” Nursey says, “I have dreams of lounging by the pool drinking mimosas while Finley is at kindergarten and you’re off earning millions.”

“Fuck you,” it comes out as more of a sob than an expletive

“I’m sorry, I think I may have misheard you. Was that a _Thank_ you?”

“No.”

“I think it was. I think it was a _thank you, Nursey, you’re right. I should stop being a martyr and let the people in my life who love me help me_.”

There's that word again.

“No,” Dex says.

He doesn’t mean it.

“Yes?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe.”

Nursey leans forward, weight still on his hands, hands still braced on Dex’s knees.

He kisses him, soft. Barely even tangible.

“I’m sorry,” Dex says.

“Don’t do that shit again. You scared the hell out of me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He means it.

“Okay.”

Nursey stands and offers Dex his hands.

“Home?” he asks.

Dex lets Nursey pull him up to his feet and then just…keeps going, falling into Nursey with enough intention to telegraph his objective but not enough sobriety to make the movement elegant. He doesn’t care. He tucks his face into Nursey’s neck and clings.

“Home,” Dex agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> We're so close to the end! 
> 
> I'm quite pressed for time and have Many Papers to Grade (on Fraction's Hawkeye, though, so it's not like it's a real hardship or anything), but thank you for all the comments and I'll see you next week. 
> 
> Also, happy Valentine's day for those of you who celebrate such a thing. In very happy news, the lovelorn Romeo aka the "World's Loneliest Frog" has found a potential mate (read about him here: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/2019/01/worlds-loneliest-frog-romeo-juliet-bolivia/). The two were supposed to meet for the first time tomorrow because scientists are romantic fools but had to delay the meeting a bit due to some fungal concerns (oh dear!). If you, like me, would like to live vicariously through a frog, you can follow Romeo's twitter for updates here: https://twitter.com/romeothefrog?lang=en


	27. Chapter 27

Nursey wakes up to his phone alarm going off and Dex staring at him.

Not like, in a creepy way. But a sleepy, bleary, _horribly hungover for the first time ever and not handling it well_ kind of way.

After silencing his phone, Nursey goes a little cross-eyed staring back.

“Hey,” he says.

Dex grunts. It sounds pained.

“Tylenol?” he asks.

“Please,” Dex whispers.

Nursey hands over pills and a gatorade, brings him some scrambled eggs and toast, and then lingers, longer than he should, to kiss the adorably anguished crease between Dex’s eyebrows and zip him up in one of Nursey’s hoodies and—

He’s late for class.

Nursey finds he doesn’t care.

Dex is sitting up in bed, squinting at a textbook, when Nursey stops by the dorms at lunch. He leaves a takeaway chicken salad, a handful of cookies wrapped in a grease-spotted napkin, and another gatorade.

After his last class, Nursey returns to find Dex showered and dressed in the common room, and a Haus full of _really good_ smells.

“Fuck me,” Shitty says, hanging up his coat. “I’m going to need whoever is cooking to marry me immediately.”

“No,” Dex says from the couch. “Though, technically, the crockpot is the thing doing the cooking. And I can’t speak for her.”

Nursey leans over the back of the couch to kiss Dex because he’s cute and because he has just refused to marry Shitty, an admirable quality in a boyfriend.

“Better ask her myself, then,” Shitty says, smoothing down his hair and walking purposefully into the kitchen.

Dex laughs.

“So what’s in the crock pot?” Nursey asks.

“Chili. Figured I’d make us something for dinner since you—“

Dex waves an embarrassed hand.

“Doted on you?” Nursey supplies. “Cared for you? Played nursemaid? Saw to your every need?”

“Not my _every_ need,” Dex mutters, and then goes abruptly pink. “Anyway. Whatever. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Also. Uh. I was wondering.”

Nursey raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I see. The chili isn’t a _thank you_ it’s a _bribe_.”

“It can be both,” Dex says. “It’s _really good_ chili. And I even got the stupid fancy ground beef you like even though it costs twice as much.”

“Its not stupid to want meat that was treated ethically, Poindexter. Happy, healthy, free-range cows taste better than sad, abused, antibiotic and hormone-ridden—“

“Oh my god,” Dex says. “Do not fucking start this again. A cow doesn’t need to have a lullaby sung to it every night to be—“

“So what’s that _favor_ you wanted to ask me?” Nursey interrupts.

Dex goes silent, glowering at him.

Nursey smiles politely.

“I was _wondering_ ,” he says. “If you would sit with me while I call Amy. To ask about adoption stuff.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

Neither of them says anything for a long, awkward, moment.

“Now?” Nursey asks.

“Sure? The crockpot has two more hours so we can wait a while if—“

“No, it’s fine. Now is good.”

They go upstairs and sit on the bed: backs to the wall, fingers laced together, phone on speaker bridging their thighs.

Amy doesn’t answer at first but she does call back a few minutes later.

“Hi, Dex. Are you okay?”

“Uh. Yeah? Yes. How are you?”

Nursey can hear her smiling.

“I’m fine. I was just a worried about you last night. You sounded a little off on the phone.”

Dex swallows.

“I was hoping I could talk to you about, um, adoption stuff.”

Well. That’s one way to introduce the topic.

Amy’s pause is weighty. “Of course, sweetheart. Do you—“

“I know I wouldn’t be able to take care of her now,” Dex says. Well. Blurts out, really.

Amy exhales and it sounds like relief.

Nursey can tell that rankles a little.

“But I also know that longer term fosters are a thing. And I don’t—I don’t know how this is supposed to work or what channels I need to go through but. Do you think it might be possible for me to like, adopt her in a year or two? Start the process now and then once I’m established take her full time? Would you—I know I’m young. But—“

“Oh sweetheart. I’m glad you’re being smart about this. That really shows maturity. I was afraid for a minute you wanted to adopt her _now.”_

Dex glares briefly at Nursey who tries very hard to keep his expression blank.

Judging by Dex’s subsequent eye-roll he’s probably not successful.

“No,” Dex says. “I want to,” he throws Nursey another look, “be smart about it.”

“Well good. There _is_ a process, for what you’re describing, and we’ll need to talk to our social worker as well as Finley’s caseworker and child services if this is something you want to work toward. But I think it’s definitely feasible. I’d be happy to explain what that might look like and the things you need to do the next time you visit. Or I can have Sonja—that’s Finley’s caseworker—contact you directly and walk you through things.”

Dex exhales.

“Thank you. I’d like to talk to Sonja as soon as possible. But we have next weekend off and I haven’t made my work schedule yet. Can I talk to you then too, or—“

“Of course. Also, if the surgery this week goes as planned, Finley will be cleared for short adventures two weekends from now. So if you want, you could start planning her first-ever trip outside the hospital walls. No more than an hour. Just a little fresh air and you can't leave the hospital grounds. Still a big milestone, though.”

Dex looks relatively horrified by this prospect. “Are you sure that’s _safe_? That soon after heart surgery?”

“Oh look,” she says dryly, “you’re parenting already.”

“That sounds good,” Nursey says when it’s clear that Dex is too busy having an existential crisis to respond.

“Oh, hello, Nursey,” Amy says. She doesn’t sound surprised to hear his voice. “How’s the baby-wearing research going? Did you find a wrap you like?”

_Traitor,_ he thinks uncharitably.

“The _what_ research?” Dex whispers.

“I did,” Nursey says stoically. “I went with the Ergobaby for now while she’s small. But, uh. I think the Wrapsody one would be a good option for when she’s bigger?”

_Wrapsody_ Dex mouths.

“Sounds like you’re prepared,” Amy says. “Maybe you should teach Dex how the Ergobaby works and you can bring it to try after Finley’s surgery.”

Nursey can do that.Thanks to youtube tutorials, and practicing with Mr. Bun, he’s basically a pro.

“Sure thing,” Nursey says.

Amy and Dex talk more about arranging a meeting time and the fact that Dex can’t actually “adopt” Finley but, rather, he’d be applying for “gaurdianship” which is legally the same thing—Nursey sort of tunes them out because he’s thought before, abstractly, about carrying Finley. Against his chest. Out, in the world. But now he has a date, in the near future, when it will actually, likely, happen. But the world is such a big, loud, dangerous, place. And she’s _so small_. He kind of gets why Dex’s first response to the idea was caution. _Is this what being a father is like?_ he wonders. _Constant worry?_

“Hey,” Dex says and Nursey realizes the phone’s screen is dark. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

They should probably talk, before things go any further. Both legally but also like. In terms of baby-wearing and Nursey’s poor, hopeful, anxious, heart.

“Do you really have a wrap?” Dex asks.

“Yeah,” Nursey admits. “Back of my closet. I’ve been practicing with Mr. Bun.”

He probably could have done without sharing that part.

Dex’s sudden, face-splitting, grin is worth the embarrassment.

“Mr. Bun. Seriously?”

“Well. Chowder’s shark wouldn’t work.”

“The tail,” Dex agrees sagely.

His grin fades.

“We should probably, uh—“

“Yeah.” Nursey says.

They both look away.

The silence stretches past the point of comfort.

One of them is going to have to be brave and Nursey is really hoping its not him

“So,” Nursey says.

“So,” Dex agrees.

Shit. Okay. It’s going to have to be him.

He opens his mouth but just—nothing happens.

“I know,” Dex says.

“What?”

“I know we need to talk. About last night. “

“We do,” Nursey agrees.

Dex licks his lips.

“Feel free to start,” he says, a little sheepishly, and Nursey tries to laugh but doesn’t quite manage it.

“I know I said—“

“I’m not—“

They both start and then stop again with a lurch.

“It’s ok if you didn’t mean it,” Dex says, more exhale than sentence. “Or if you did then but aren’t sure now. Or you need time to—“

“I did,” Nursey says. “Do. But it doesn’t have to be _me_. Like. If you don’t want me. For you or for Finley. That’s. Fine.”

It’s not fine.

For someone who hadn’t even realized he was in love or wanted to be a father until the day before, the words are overwhelmingly, wrenchingly, terrible.

“If you’re not—if you don’t love me back or whatever,” Nursey says. “There are awesome live-in nannies, you know? And you’ll be able to afford one once you’re signed. Whatever team you end up with can probably even help you find a good one. So even if _we_ aren’t something you want, you can still have Finley. But you’ve gotta tell me that now because I’m already— If this _isn’t_ serious for you I need to—“

“I _am_ ,” Dex interrupts. “Or it is. I mean. I love you. I’m pretty sure.”

Dex’s mouth seems uncomfortable around the word.

“You’re pretty sure,” Nursey repeats.

From anyone else, Nursey might find that inadequate. But from Dex—

“I haven’t associated love with like. Good things. Historically. But I realize my perspective is maybe a little fucked up. And I know good things are supposed to be associated with love. So. I think I do. Love you. Because you’re, uh. Definitely good things.”

He scrubs his fingers over his face, making an annoyed noise.

“I’m good things?” Nursey

“The best,” Dex mutters.

Nursey tries to stifle a grin.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dex says. “I’m trying.”

“I know. I see that.”

“I’ve never—I don’t have anything to compare it to. But I’m pretty sure this is endgame for me.”

“I’ll take it.”

Dex’s face goes kind of wonky and Nursey realizes belatedly that Dex is probably trying to decide if this is the appropriate venue for a sexual pun.

“Do not,” Nursey says. “We’re having a serious conversation.”

“Okay. Okay, I just.” He’s abruptly serious again. “I guess I don’t understand. Why you even—“ Nursey thinks he wants to say _love me_ but can’t quite make himself go there.

“You can do better,” Dex says. “So much fucking better, than me. You’re great. And I’m just—“

He shrugs.

As if that’s all he needs to say.

“You’re just?” Nursey repeats, incredulous. “What the fuck.There’s nothing _just_ about you.”

The words are woefully inadequate.

Dex goes very, very red.

Dex clears his throat, standing suddenly. “I was going to make some cornbread to go with the chili. You want to help?”

“I—sure?”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Dex more or less flees the room and Nursey follows, catching his arm as they descend the stairs, pulling Dex to a stop so he can tuck down the tag in the back of his shirt and kiss his neck for good measure while he’s there.

“Your hair is getting long again,” he notes. “You want me to cut it tonight or are you finally going to give in and let your ringlets grow?”

“I hate you,” Dex says.

“You love me,” Nursey says. And he’s pretty sure it’s true, now.

“I tolerate you.”

“You already admitted it,” he says, commandeering Dex’s hand as they enter the common room. “No take-backs.”

“No take-backs? Are you twelve?”

“Twelve inches.”

“You wish.”

“I don’t, actually. That would probably be really inconvenient.”

“Yeah? Probably true, right Bitty?” Dex asks, rounding the corner into the kitchen.

“Hmm?” Bitty says.

“Having a monster dick,” Dex says. “It’s inconvenient, right?”

Bitty throws a pot holder at them.

***

That night, Nursey leaves Dex to his makeup-work and goes to have dessert with his parents. They order room service and lounge on the king-sized bed dipping forks and spoons into various shared dishes, occasionally devolving briefly into silverware-warfare.

Nursey tells his parents about Dex’s decision.

His decision.

His parents are very quiet afterward.

They do that thing where they have a whole conversation through raised eyebrows, quirked lips, and subtle utensil-gestures.

“Well,” his mother says, “I can’t say it’s a surprise, really. Though I certainly thought I had more time before— _Oh my goodness_ ,” she interrupts herself with suddenly, urgent, ferocity. “I’m going to have a _grand baby_. What is she going to _call_ me?! I didn’t think I was going to have to decide this until much later. Okay. This is fine. We can figure it out right now. What do you think?” She drops her spoon to grab Nursey’s hands in both of hers. “Do I look like a Grandma? A Grammy? A Nana?”

“You look far too young to be any of those things,” his dad says around a fork-full of tiramisu.

“Points for charm, love,” she says fondly, “But thats not actually helpful.”

“You realize Finley isn’t going to start speaking any time soon, right?” Nursey points out. “And this is like. Way in the future. It’s not like _I’m_ adopting her. I’m just. Dating her future dad.”

And planning a life with the two of them.

And having daydreams about teaching her to skate.

And maybe, sort of, very abstractly, thinking about what she’ll call Dex (“dad”?) and wondering then if she might call him _Papa_ or something else.

Nursey needs to take a few deep breaths.

His parents ignore him.

“I’m rather partial to grand-père myself,” his dad says thoughtfully.

“Oh,” his mother says. “ _Oh_ , that’s perfect. Grand-mère and Grand-père. Are you wanting to teach her french?” She turns to Nursey. “We can certainly help with that. It’s served you so well, darling.”

“Oh. I mean, I’ll have to ask Dex but that’s probably—all the books say that the sooner you teach kids different languages the better. And that multilingual children tend to have better social, analytical and academic skills than monolingual kids.I probably need to read up some more, but—“

“Just something to think about,” his dad interrupts. “Deep breaths.”

Nursey finds that advisable.

An hour later, with the notepad in his phone full of lawyers contact information (just in case, darling!) and some book recommendations about both adoption and raising multilingual children, Nursey returns to the Haus feeling a little overwhelmed.

Dex is already in bed and mostly asleep, despite the fact that his laptop is open on the mattress beside him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Nursey agrees.

“Did you apologize to your parents for me?”

“I did. You’re forgiven. They also sent me back with the name and info for the lawyer they used when they adopted me. Just in case you wanted it. And they want to help us teach Finley French.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay? They really must forgive me, then.”

“Yeah.”

Nursey strips out of his clothes, moves Dex’s laptop to the desk, and tucks himself right into Dex’s space.

“I know you’re calling the shots and everything but I think it’d be a good idea to teach her a few other languages as early as possible. French and Spanish for sure. Maybe Japanese?”

“I don’t know any of those languages,” Dex says, “Do you?”

“Yeah. My Japanese is a little rusty, though. I know basic Italian and Mandarin too.”

“Jesus,” Dex says. “You should probably start teaching _me_ now, then.”

Nursey chest goes tight with what feels like an excessive amount of affection.

“Please tell me you’re freaking out a little about this, too,” he mumbles into Dex’s warm, Dex-smelling neck.

“I’m freaking out a little about this, too,” he confirms.

“Okay, good.”

“Second thoughts?” Dex asks.

“None.”

“Okay,” Dex says again. “Good.”

He reaches to turn off the light.

“Did you brush your teeth?” Dex asks.

“Nope. And I’m not going to.”

“Heathen.”

“That’s me.”

Dex pushes his mouth briefly, brusquely, against Nursey’s forehead. He still hasn’t figured out sweet, gentle, kisses, yet. But he’s working on it.

Nursey wiggles one hand up the back of Dex’s shirt and exhales, long and slow.

“Night,” he says.

“Night,” Dex agrees.

Several minutes later, when Nursey is more asleep than awake, Dex shifts, dragging his hand down Nursey’s outside arm.

“Hey. You don’t still write sad poetry about me, do you?”

“No? I do write about you, though.”

“Happy shit?”

Nursey grins. “Yeah. Happy shit.”

“Do one.”

“Do…what. You want me to make up a poem about you. Right now?

“Yeah,” Dex says, sleep-slow. “Happy one.”

Nursey considers for a moment. Runs his fingers up and down the terraced landscape of Dex’s ribs.

There was a time when Dex was untouchable. Too sharp for physical affection. Nursey can’t imagine going back to that now.

“You are,” he says, mouth under Dex’s ear. “The happiest accident.”

He kisses Dex’s jaw. “A book left on the wrong shelf.”

He runs his nose down the tendon of his neck. “Found by the right hands.”

He exhales, damp breath on hot skin. “An accidental allurement I never want to stop reading.”

Dex swallows and Nursey can feel it.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” Nursey says. And it’s not particularly poetic but it is true and it feels necessary to remind him.

“Love you too,” Dex answers.

It rough and still more than a little awkward, like he’s preparing to have to defend himself for being briefly vulnerable, but it lacks the uncertainty of before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log:
> 
> Sorry for the belated chapter. Who knew starting dissertation work would take so much time?? 
> 
> You'll notice I upped the chapter count again. There should just be one chapter left and then the epilogue (which is already written, so that update, at least, will be on time).
> 
> Expect the next chapter by the 6th at the latest! You guys are awesome. Getting an email with a comment as I slog through work or paper grading or conferences is honestly so uplifting. You have no idea. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this story that ended up Over Twice As Long as I intended. At least I was self-aware from the beginning that my "final chapter count" would be a farce. That's the first step, right? Admitting you have a problem?
> 
> Anyway. See you next week! I hope life treats you kindly until then!


	28. Chapter 28

Two days after Nursey’s parents have left, Dex sits on his bed pretending to do homework, waiting for Nursey to come home.

Nursey had a meeting with his poetry teacher after his final class and they have—Dex checks his phone—eleven minutes before they’re supposed to meet the rest of the guys at the gym.

“Hey,” Nursey says, shouldering open door. “Bits and Shitty were leaving as I came in, and I didn’t see anyone else downstairs so it looks like we’re walking over alone.”

“Ok,” Dex says.

Nursey crouches and starts to unload his bag—laptop, charger, two textbooks and his journal—on the chair, where he’ll leave them until after dinner and then hog all of Dex’s desk space while Dex does his own homework on the bed.

It’s a good routine.

He likes it.

“So,” Dex says brightly, because it’s now or never. “I think we should have sex.”

Nursey drops a handful of pens.

“What?”

“Sex,” Dex repeats. “We should do it. Or like. Start the process.”

Nursey blinks at him. “We should start the… sex process?”

“Fuck you, I don’t know the terminology for it. It’s just. The last couple of days. With Finley and the social workers and everything. We’re planning our future together and I’ve never even touched your dick. Which—“ He glances at the door suddenly, like he’s expecting Shitty might barge in at any moment. “Not that that’s like. A requirement or whatever. If you don’t want to do uh, sex things, that’s—well. It would suck. Or not suck as the case may be—ha. Um. But I would get over it. Except I’m pretty sure you _do_ want to do sex things so feel free to make me stop talking at any point here so I can stop staying the fucking phrase _sex things_ —“

“Dex.”

“Yes,” Dex says, relieved.

“I would like to do sex things with you,” Nursey says solemnly.

“Great.”

Nursey finishes emptying his bag and stands. He gestures vaguely to his crotch.

“Right now, or—?”

“What? _No._ We’ve got to go work out and eat and finish our homework. Tonight, though?”

“Yes. Sex Things, tonight,” Nursey agrees.“After working out and eating and homework. I’ll put it on my calendar.”

Dex glowers at him.

“Oh, and I can add it to yours too.”

Nursey uncaps the expo marker velcro-ed to the wall and writes his name on Dex’s white board’s “To Do” list.

_To Do:_ it reads. _Derek Malik Nurse._

“I will choke you,” Dex says.

“Not one of my kinks, but thanks for asking.”

Dex makes a noise that can only be called a squeak. He throws his pillow at Nursey’s face.

“Go change,” he says. “Gym.”  
Nursey tosses the pillow back and salutes, laughing his way into the hall, “Yes, _sir_.”

“Not one of my kinks, but thanks for asking,” Dex shouts after him.

“I don’t want to know,” Jack says from the hallway.

Dex maybe screams a little and slams the door.

They walk to the gym together, gloved hands linked and tucked into Nursey’s anorak pocket like a giant fucking cliche.

He likes that too.

“I’m seeing someone,” Dex says.

“You better be talking about me,” Nursey says.

“No, I mean. A therapist. Here. I started today. This morning during my free period.”

“ _Oh_.” Nursey squeezes Dex’s hand. “Can I ask why? Why now?”

“Because. I’m hopefully going to be responsible for a kid. And like. Making sure she’s happy and loved and shit and I don’t—I don’t know how to do that. I didn’t have an example of how to do that right. I think it’d be good if I start figuring all that out now. Before. So maybe I can do things right if I get her. When I get her. And I want. Um. Us. To be good too. So. I’m going to talk to the guy about like. Relationship shit too. As well as baby shit.”

“Oh. That’s—“

“If you say chill I will punch you.”

“Nah,” Nursey says. “That’s the opposite of chill. That’s a big deal. Good, though. I’m like. Proud of you and shit.”

“Well. I just wanted you to know.”

“Okay.” Nursey squeezes his hand again. “Just FYI threatening to punch your partner is probably frowned upon. Like, therapeutically. Free tip.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Dex abruptly sobers.

“You know I wouldn’t, though, right?”

“What?”

“Hit you.” The words are urgent. Almost embarrassingly earnest. “I wouldn’t. Ever. I fucking swear.”

“I do,” Nursey says, “I do know.”

They go quiet for several seconds.

“Also,” Nursey says, “if you’re going to have a kid you’ll have to clean up your language. Or you’re going to be getting some calls from irate kindergarten teachers in a few years.”

“Oh,” Dex says. “Fuck.”

“Yes, exactly.” Nurse agrees.

They mostly ignore each other once they get to the gym, because Dex needs silence and focus and prefers to attack his training routine with something akin to malice, while Nursey likes to play his bouncy hype music and dance a little between sets and talk with whoever is on the machine next to him. Dex and Jack tend to work out together in stoic silence while Nursey joins Chowder and Bitty in laughing their way through the following hour.

It works.

And the fact that they’re mostly on opposite sides of the room means that Dex can glance up from his hunched position on the exercise bike and watch Nursey shimmy his spandex-clad ass between sets without anyone noticing.

Well.

Jack probably notices. He blessedly doesn’t say anything, though. Maybe because he’s too busy similarly staring at Bitty. But that’s none of Dex’s business.

After showering, they all go to the cafeteria and then walk back to the Haus in a group, Nursey and Dex’s hands tucked together again in Nursey’s pocket, and it’s so normal, so—ordinary, that no one says anything. Ransom and Nursey carry on a conversation about the relative merits of inline-6 vs. V-6 engines while Bitty tells Dex about a new recipe he wants to try and it’s just. It’s not even noteworthy, this thing he always imagined would be too big and unwieldy to ever act on. He ducks his head, tucking his chin into his scarf so no one can see him smile.

He’s happy.

Really, really, happy.

“So,” Dex says once they’re back in his room and Nursey is trying to sort out his icy, snowed-on hair.

“So,” Nursey agrees.

“You know your cousin. Devon? The uh, biological one?”

Nursey turns away from the mirror on the back of the door. “…Yes.”

“I friended her on insta.”

“You have an insta? Poindexter. It’s like I don’t even know you.” He digs for his phone in his pocket. “What is it?”

“That’s not—I haven’t posted any pictures, I just used it to find her. Can you focus for a minute?”

“Right sorry,” Nursey widens his eyes, faux complacent, and moves to sit next to him on the bed. “My cousin,” he prompts Dex.

“Her spring break is next week.”

“Okay?”

“And I invited her to our Friday game. It’s only a two hour drive and the game is a matinee so she could come see it and then maybe we could all get an early dinner before she has to drive back? Or at least that’s what I suggested. And she said that sounded cool. So. She’s coming. Fuck. Should I have asked you first? I wanted it to be a surprise but then I started thinking maybe this isn’t the kind of thing to surprise someone with and—“

“Dex,” Nursey says.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. “

He exhales, sagging. “Ok. Good. You’re not mad.”

“No. I’m glad you told me, though. Do you think she’d want to spend the night? I could pay for her hotel. And then we could all visit Finley on Saturday. I’ve sent Devon a bunch of pictures but they don’t do Finley justice.”

Dex grins. “That sounds nice.”

He nudges Nursey with his elbow because he’s still not very good at initiating kisses.

Nursey, thank god, knows him well enough to nudge him back, and then press his smiling mouth to Dex’s. It’s not a very good kiss—too many teeth involved, and then subsequently too much laughter, but it’s still good. Like. In general.

“So,” Dex says. “Have you…talked to anyone else biologically related to you?”

“No. Just Devon. She’s one of only two cousins and none of the adults—or like, the older adults, anyway, seem to want anything to do with me.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah. I think I’m okay with it, though. Devon seems cool. And even if we aren’t ever close, like. I have my parents. And you. And—“ he pauses, like he’s uncertain.

“And Finley,” Dex says.

Nursey smiles. A soft, pleased, thing. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Dex says, resisting the urge to pull out the notes he’d made after his therapy appointment. “If you ever need support. Or whatever. I’m here for you.”

Nursey toys with the cuff of Dex’s sweater sleeve. His hands are warm and familiar and he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

These days Nursey touches Dex like his limbs are an extension of Nursey’s own body. It’s bafflingly pleasant.

“I know,” Nursey says. “Thanks for telling me, though. And thanks for inviting Devon. Is there—you know the same thing goes for me, right? Do you want to visit your mom? Because I’d go with you. If that was something you wanted.”

Dex doesn’t answer for several long seconds.

“I don’t think so. Not now, anyway. I’m good with the family I have.”

“Yeah,” Nursey agrees, and it seems significant. “Me too.”

Dex doesn’t think he can handle it if things get any sweeter.

“So,” he says, definitely at normal volume. “Sex?”

Nursey laughs, tipping forward to plant his face into Dex’s neck. There’s still melting snow in his hair and it’s startlingly cold against Dex’s jaw.

“Wait,” Dex says, pushing Nursey away. “Wait. Hold on.”

He flips the light switch, closes the curtains, makes sure the door is locked, and turns on the fairy lights. Then he plugs in his ipod to the speaker’s aux cable and pulls up the playlist Bitty helped him make the day before.

“Okay,” he says, returning to the bed. “Continue.”

Nursey hauls Dex into his lap and he’s still laughing a little but his hands are too gentle, too reverent—slipping up the back of Dex’s shirt, pulling their hips together—for Dex to take offense.

“Hold up,” Nursey says, glancing toward the speaker. “Did you make a _sex playlist_?”

Dex’s face flushes hot. “I was trying to be romantic, asshole. I can turn it off.”

“Don’t you dare,” Nursey says.

“Great. Take off your fucking pants.”

Nursey just looks at him for a minute. Like Dex is something important. Like maybe Nursey really does think he’s worth one hundred and forty million dollars.

“Oh my god,” Nursey says, “I love you so much.”

He stands, pulling Dex’s shirt most of the way off, leaving it wrapped around his head, and Dex kicks blindly at him, trying to free himself. Nursey catches his foot and drags him off the bed and it turns into a bit of a wrestling match before Nursey gets sidetracked, thighs bracketing Dex’s waist, one hand pushing Dex’s face to the side, because it’s apparently imperative that he pause to touch the newly exposed freckles on Dex’s shoulder.

He follows his fingers with his mouth.

Dex rolls them a few minutes later and scrambles back up onto the bed, mostly as an excuse to catch his breath, refusing to let Nursey join him unless he _gets fucking naked already, honestly_ and Nursey acquiesces easily enough.

Dex watches him, skin cast in sepia starburst patterns from the fairy lights, his grinning mouth a slash of white in the darkness, as he struggles to shove his skinny jeans down over the bulk of his thighs. Dex watches the flex of his naked back as he bends to pull at one pant leg and Dex thinks, suddenly, about the dozens of times he played make-believe with Piper. There was usually a _true love_ involved. Piper’s true love almost always lived in space and was often in need of rescuing. She tried to get Dex to play along but that was one game he’d never been any good at. The very idea of it, that there was someone out there, just for him, who would love him despite all his faults and who he would love in return—that kind of fantasy was too unbelievable.

It’s not so unbelievable now.

“Fucking stupid things,” Nursey curses.

His jeans are hobbling his ankles, blocked by his thick winter socks, and he’s hopping around a little, trying to pull the jeans back up high enough that he can get the socks off first.

It gives Dex a very nice view of his ass.

Dex grins and bites his already tender bottom lip and thinks about fantasy and science.

He’d learned all about space in the few months he lived with his uncle. He remembers watching _Cosmos_ , hearing Carl Sagan say that people are made of star dust.

Dex also knows that attraction is down to chemicals and pheromones and biological imperatives. He knows that there are scientific reasons for elevated heart rates, for lust and love and feelings of affection.

But he’s started to think— he wonders if maybe it isn’t a little bit of both. Fantasy and science. Maybe there are people who are made of the same sort of dust. People who used to be part of the same star that’s trying to find its way back together again.

He looks at Nursey, still struggling with his socks, and leans forward, reaching for him.

A hand on his hip.

Hot skin and cool air.

“Here,” he says, “let me help you.”

Maybe that’s what this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Captain's Log:
> 
> Okay so. This is the end. Mostly. Except there is an epilogue that I may want to add to which may necessitate two additional chapters after this one, depending on how long it gets. So I will definitely see you next week, and...possibly one more week after that. 30 does seem like a good round number.
> 
> In teaching news: my class is going really well! They're currently working on papers about The Killing Joke and we did Ms. Marvel and Moongirl Vs. Devil Dinosaur this week, talking about diverse comics marketed for younger audiences. Next week we'll do Persepolis and then it's a "free" week--where they get to choose their own comic/graphic novel/manga to read/analyze. I'm really looking forward to that. Last year I had a student introduce me to a fantastic graphic novel called Mis(h)adra and I'm hoping for some good recs again this year. 
> 
> In dissertation news: I've added a media/film studies prof to my committee (who conveniently specializes in obscenity law/explicit narratives) (if you've been following me for a while this is the same guy who taught my Feminism and Pornography class two years ago!). I'm delighted he's agreed to join and it's so refreshing to have someone who you can drop by their office and just straight up talk about the nuances of cybersexuality. Fun fact: he and several of his Academic Porn Friends spent most of November helping folks with Tumblrs that would be affected by the porn ban (specifically sex workers) save all of their content and move it to different archives/servers. So we definitely yelled about how ridiculous that whole situation was today and how my diss chapter on obscenity will need to be necessarily scathing when talking about this situation. Academia is great.
> 
> In dog news: Deacon remains the goodest boy.


	29. Chapter 29

***********Epilogue: Three Months Later***********

With their first round pick, the Providence Falconers select Jack Zimmerman.

With their second round pick, the Providence Falconers select William Poindexter.

Dex doesn’t remember much of the following minutes because he’s too busy thinking: _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck._

He remembers pulling the blue jersey over his head, probably looking like an idiot. He remembers posing for pictures. Hugging Jack. Posing for more pictures with Jack.

“We’ll have to win a cup straight away, you know,” Jack says, one arm around his shoulders.

“Uh. Okay?” Like. Obviously that’s the goal.

“Finley won’t be small enough to sit in it past like, 3 years old,” Jack continues seriously.

Ah. “And Finley sitting in the cup is necessary?”

Jack looks perturbed by this. “Of course it is.”

“Right.”

He meets up with Maura and Nursey after several awkward minutes talking to the press and Maura hugs him and Nursey cries on him and then they go back to the hotel and Facetime Finley who lounges in her Bobby, poking at the ipad screen with visibly sticky fingers, screaming happily as they wave at her.

Screaming is her favorite thing at the moment.

Her foster, Michael, tells them that she rolled over unassisted for the first time that morning and Nursey cries some more while Dex hurriedly opens his laptop to add that to her milestone spreadsheet.

She loses interest in them a few minutes later and they say goodbye, ordering room service for the first time in Dex’s life. They sit squished together in the center of the king-sized bed, sharing a plate, laptops open, elbowing each other companionably.

Dex has several real estate tabs open, looking at apartments for rent in Providence and he knows Nursey has tabs open looking at houses for sale that are significantly outside of Dex’s budget—even his soon-to-be, admittedly generous, budget. Dex will insist on an apartment for the first year, at least until they know for sure that he’s not going to be sent down. But he also knows they’ll probably end up compromising eventually. That they’ll find a small house and Dex will let Nursey cover the downpayment with the stipulation that Dex pays the monthly mortgage and utilities. Nursey will probably argue to pay utilities and Dex will counter that Nursey can pay for any maintenance or renovations and Nursey will say only if that includes furniture and decorations which _of course it doesn’t_ but Dex knows that he’ll give in on that too. Because the thought of it is—

Nursey made Dex’s dorm a home.

And if Nursey can make a cinderblock cube feel warm and safe, Dex can only imagine what he’d do with a house of his own. With a kitchen. With a nursery.

“You know,” Nursey says later, when they’re brushing their teeth. “If we got married you might be able to move the whole petition for guardianship thing along faster. Not to take her full-time sooner. But just to have the paperwork done. So we could take her full time as soon as we wanted.”

“Yeah?” Dex says, spitting in the sink. “How do you figure that?”

“Well you wouldn’t have to wait until you’re settled with the team to prove you have a reliable form of housing and income and a stable home life. If we got married we’d have my trust fund and I’d be a stable parent regardless of your hockey shit.“

Dex grins, wiping his mouth on his arm.

“While I appreciate your continued willingness to throw your trust fund at my problems, I think we’ll stick with the route we’re on now. But,” he sobers. “I could ask about officially adding you as like. A supportive party? Or something. I’m sure there’s a word for it. For like, partners of adopters. You’re making a face. Why are you making a face?”

Nursey stalls by rinsing his mouth twice as long as usual.

“She’s yours. Or she will be. I get that. I want that. But I think. Not like, right now or anything, but eventually?I want her to be mine too, you know? Is that—something you’d be willing to talk about? Down the line.”

Oh.

_Oh._

Dex just barely resists clutching his chest like a romantic idiot.

“Of course. I mean. I’d—we’d need to talk about it. But yeah.”

“Well,” Nursey says, slinging his arms around Dex’s waist. “We’re getting better at that. The Talking.”

“We are.”

Nursey rests his chin on Dex’s shoulder and they consider their joined reflections in the mirror.

“Okay,” Dex says. “So we’ll talk about it.”

“Okay,” Nursey agrees.

“Also,” Dex says. “Would you stop trying to marry me?”

“No.” Nursey says, kissing the shell of his ear. “No, I will not.”

********************3 Years later********************

They win the Stanley cup Dex’s third year with the Falconers.

It’s the first in franchise history.

Jack has a C on his jersey and Dex has a feeling he’ll be offered an A next year.

He gets passed the cup fifth and he kisses it with his eyes closed and too much everything in his chest.

Dex’s entire family is in the stands except for Piper because she was at space camp and “I love you, Will, but _NASA_." She _had_ managed to make time to fly out for Nursey's party the month before, though. The party for the release of Nursey's first book. The book that won the Yale Younger Poets Prize. Dex considered giving Piper hell for her priorities except he definitely agrees that his brilliant boyfriend winning the oldest annual literary award in the United States is far more noteworthy than a Stanley cup final appearance.

Regardless, while Piper was far too busy doing genius things in California, she _had_ sent along Nicolaus Copernicus with Maura as a stand-in for her. The picture Dex posted on Instagram that morning of the beat-up stuffed lobster wearing a Falconers bandana and matching hair scrunchies around his pinchers had over 25k hits already.

So Nicolaus Copernicus is somewhere in the stands right now, with Maura and most of the rest of Dex’s family and Nursey’s parents and Devon, who’s wearing Finley’s old Ergobaby carrier with her own six-month-old boy in it wearing the bulbous headphones that also used to be Finley’s. Nursey isn’t in the stands, though. Nursey is walking out onto the ice with all the close family members of other players—wives and kids and parents. He’s holding Finley’s hand, clearly moving slower than he wants to, making sure she doesn’t slip on the ice. She does anyway and Nursey swings her up onto his hip instead.

“Jack,” Dex says. “Can I borrow the cup for a minute?”

Jack hands it over with no argument, possibly because Bitty is bounding toward them and Jack wants both hands to deal with that. Whatever _that_ may be.

So Dex takes the cup.

And he waits until Nursey is close enough to hear him and then.

He goes down on one knee, holding the cup up toward Nursey with a shit-eating grin.

“Hey, Nurse. How would you feel about marrying me?”

Nursey just stares at him, narrow-eyed, for a moment.

“Are you seriously proposing to me with the Stanley Cup right now?”

“Well, you won’t be allowed to _keep_ it—“

“Cheapskate.”

“But I figured it’s the gesture that’s important. I also have a ring in my bag if that’s more your style.”

Nursey shifts Finley from his hip to his back in a practiced movement. “Hey baby, can you hang on real tight for a minute?” he asks her.

She wraps her arms around his neck. He chokes a little. It’s fine.

“I don’t want to rush you,” Dex says, “but this is kinda heavy and my shoulder is definitely fucked so—“

“Stand up, asshole.”

“Is that a yes?”

He reaches for the cup, hauling Dex to his feet by proxy.

“You want to kiss under the cup, don’t you?” Nursey asks.

“I really do,” Dex says.

Nursey rolls his eyes, but he does it, pushing the cup above their heads, fingers curled tight around the bowl.

He kisses Dex and doesn’t stop.

Jack clears his throat and they laugh, separating.

They hand the cup back to him.

Finley takes this opportunity to launch herself into Dex’s arms and he catches her, pretending to almost drop her purely so she’ll shriek with laughter.

“Just as a point of clarification,” Dex says, once she’s propped upright on his hip, “that was a yes, right? On the marriage thing.”

Finley pokes his cheek and Dex catches her hand, smacking an absent kiss to her palm out of habit.

“That’s a yes,” Nursey says.

Dex leans forward to kiss Nursey again.

“Ew,” Finley says.

***

Nursey wakes up the following morning to sunlight coming through the partially opened curtains.

His head hurts, but in a dull, well-deserved kind of way.

Dex is asleep beside him, a riot of tanned skin and freckles against white sheets. His left hand, fingers lax and sleep-curled in the space between them, has Nursey’s ring on it.

Nursey takes a moment to admire the band on his own finger.

He’s happy.

It is a quiet joy. Not the vibrant, noisy celebration of on-ice success but soft hush of content, early-morning quiet. It’s not stadium echoes and rattling sticks and shouted expletives but soft outside noises: birds and wind-in-leaves nearly hidden under the familiar hum of the air conditioning inside.

He can hear footsteps in the hall.

Finley pushes open their bedroom door, the cat in a fireman’s carry over one shoulder.

The cat’s name is Galileo—Piper’s influence. He’s a grumpy orange tabby who showed up on the back porch the previous year and Finley fell immediately in love with him. He has three legs, is missing half an ear, and is an absolute dick to everyone who isn’t Finley.

“Daddy,” she says somberly, coming to stand at Nursey’s side of the bed. “We’re late for swimming.”

He squints at the clock.

So they are.

“It’s okay. We’re skipping today.”

“Are we sick?” She asks, going up on her toes to try and see Dex.

“Nah, but Stanley Cup Champions get to sleep in.”

“Are we Stanley Cup champions?”

“We are, baby.”

She’s wearing footie Christmas pajamas despite the fact that it’s June.

She yawns and it’s still the cutest thing ever.

“Are you hungry for breakfast?” He asks. “Or do you want to come cuddle?”

“Cuddle,” she says decisively. She hefts Galileo onto the bed and then climbs over Nursey, inserting herself with practiced ease in the space between him and Dex,.

“Dad,” she whispers, patting Dex’s cheek. “Dad, we’re cuddling.”

“Oh good,” he murmurs, “thanks for letting me know.”

She arranges Dex’s arm over her to her liking and then looks over her shoulder at Nursey expectantly. He drapes his own arm over them both, tucking his hand up the back of Dex’s sleep shirt. Palm against morning-warm skin.

Finley nods approvingly and returns her attention to Dex.

“We’re not swimming, today,” she informs him. “We’re sleeping in because we’re Stanley Cup Champions.”

Dex opens his eyes.

He meets Nursey’s, grinning.

He kisses Finley’s forehead, then leans further to kiss Nursey.

“We are,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented/followed this (especially those of you who have been here giving me encouragement every week from the beginning). Sorry this chapter was a day late, one of my Internet Friends (who I met through the writing process of LRPD!) came to visit me for spring break so I've been occupied having an actual social life. We just got home from the Stars/Vegas game (Vegas won! Go Flower!) and are planning to hit up the aquarium tomorrow so expect hockey game/cool critter pics on Tumblr in the coming days. 
> 
> Thank you so much. I love you all! Subscribe or follow me on Tumblr (I'm xiaq there as well) for news on what I decide to write next (I'm not saying I'm going to take prompts...but I might).

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, assertively putting up a final chapter count like a fool.
> 
> Thanks to my various betas including @fridgefish and @wjpoindexters for making sure my Nursey and Dex are as realistic as possible!


End file.
